“Brotherson!” The word came softly now, and with a thoughtful intonation.  “He saw her die.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Would he have washed his hands in the snow if he had been in ignorance of the occurrence?  He was the real, if not active, cause of her death and he knew it.  Either he—­Excuse me, Dr. Heath and Mr. Gryce, it is not for me to obtrude my opinion.”

“Have you settled it beyond dispute that Brotherson is really the man who was seen doing this?”

“No, sir.  I have not had a minute for that job, but I’m ready for the business any time you see fit to spare me.”

“Let it be to-morrow, or, if you can manage it, to-night.  We want the man even if he is not the hero of that romantic episode.  He wrote these letters, and he must explain the last one.  His initials, as you see, are not ordinary ones, and you will find them at the bottom of all these sheets.  He was brave enough or arrogant enough to sign the questionable one with his full name.  This may speak well for him, and it may not.  It is for you to decide that.  Where will you look for him, Sweetwater?  No one here knows his address.”

“Not Miss Challoner’s maid?”

“No; the name is a new one to her.  But she made it very evident that she was not surprised to hear that her mistress was in secret correspondence with a member of the male sex.  Much can be hidden from servants, but not that.”

“I’ll find the man; I have a double reason for doing that now; he shall not escape me.”

Dr. Heath expressed his satisfaction, and gave some orders.  Meanwhile, Mr. Gryce had not uttered a word.

VIII

STRANGE DOINGS FOR GEORGE

That evening George sat so long over the newspapers that in spite of my absorbing interest in the topic engrossing me, I fell asleep in my cozy little rocking chair.  I was awakened by what seemed like a kiss falling very softly on my forehead, though, to be sure, it may have been only the flap of George’s coat sleeve as he stooped over me.

“Wake up, little woman,” I heard, “and trot away to bed.  I’m going out and may not be in till daybreak.”

“You! going out! at ten o’clock at night, tired as you are—­as we both are!  What has happened—­Oh!”

This broken exclamation escaped me as I perceived in the dim background by the sitting-room door, the figure of a man who called up recent, but very thrilling experiences.

“Mr. Sweetwater,” explained George.  “We are going out together.  It is necessary, or you may be sure I should not leave you.”

I was quite wide awake enough by now to understand.  “Oh, I know.  You are going to hunt up the man.  How I wish—­”

But George did not wait for me to express my wishes.  He gave me a little good advice as to how I had better employ my time in his absence, and was off before I could find words to answer.