“It would seem so.”

It was the Coroner who spoke.  He was nonplussed; and Mr. Gryce no less so.  Never had either of them been confronted by a blinder or more bewildering case.  An incomprehensible crime and a suspect it was impossible to associate with a deed of blood!  There must be some other explanation of the mournful circumstance they were considering.  There had been twenty or more people in the building, but—­and here was the rub—­if the chart which they had drawn up was correct and the calculations which they had drawn from it were to be depended upon, this man was the only person who had been in this gallery when the arrow was shot.

With a side glance at Mr. Gryce, who seemed content to remain silent in the background, Dr. Price turned again to Mr. Travis.

“Your admiration of the young lady must have been as sudden as it was strong.  Or possibly you had seen her before you hid behind the pedestal.  Had you, Mr. Travis?  She was a charming child; perhaps you had been attracted by her beauty before you even entered the galleries.”

Instantly the man was another being.

“You are right,” he acquiesced with undue alacrity.  “I had seen her crossing the court.  Her beauty was heavenly.  I am a gentleman, but I followed her.  When she moved, I moved; and when she went upstairs, I followed her.  But I would not offend.  I kept behind,—­far behind her,—­and when she entered the gallery on one side, I took pains to enter it on the other.  This is how I came to be looking in her direction when she was struck down.  You see, I speak with candor; I open my whole heart.”

Dr. Price, stroking his long beard, eyed the man with a thoughtful air which changed to one of renewed inquiry.  Instead of being convinced by this outburst, he was conscious of a new and deepening distrust.  The transition from a low state of feeling to one so feverishly eager had been too sudden.  The avidity with which this man just off ship had made a grasp at the offered explanation had been too marked; it lacked sincerity and could impose on no one.  Of this he seemed himself aware, for again the ready flush ran from forehead to neck, and with a deprecatory glance which included the silent detective he vehemently exclaimed: 

“I am poor at a lie.  I see that you will have the whole truth.  It was on her account I crossed the ocean.  It was by dogging her innocent steps that I came to the museum this morning.  I am a man of means, and I can do as I please.  When I said that I had never exchanged a word with her, I spoke the truth.  I never have; yet my interest in her was profound.  I have never seen any other girl or woman whom I was anxious to make my wife.  I hoped to meet and woo her in this country.  I had no opportunity for doing so in my own.  I did not see her till a night or so before she sailed, and then it was at the theater, where she sat with some friends in an adjoining box.  She talked, and I heard what she said.  She was