“She lifted her right hand, but it would be impossible for me to tell you whether there was anything in it or not.  I simply saw the movement before I turned away.  It looked like one of alarm to me.  I felt that she had some reason for this.  She could not know that it was in repentance I came rather than in fulfilment of my threat.”

A sigh from the adjoining room.  Mr. Brotherson rose, as he heard it, and in doing so met the clear eye of Sweetwater fixed upon his own.  Its language was, no doubt, peculiar and it seemed to fascinate him for a moment, for he started as if to approach the detective, but forsook this intention almost immediately, and addressing the coroner, gravely remarked: 

“Her death following so quickly upon this abortive attempt of mine at an interview startled me by its coincidence as much as it does you.  If in the weakness of her woman’s nature, it was more than this—­if the scorn she had previously shown me was a cloak she instinctively assumed to hide what she was not ready to disclose, my remorse will be as great as any one here could wish.  But the proof of all this will have to be very convincing before my present convictions will yield to it.  Some other and more poignant source will have to be found for that instant’s impulsive act than is supplied by this story of my unfortunate attachment.”

Dr. Heath was convinced, but he was willing to concede something to the secret demand made upon him by Sweetwater, who was bundling up his papers with much clatter.

Looking up with a smile which had elements in it he was hardly conscious of perhaps himself, he asked in an off-hand way: 

“Then why did you take such pains to wash your hands of the affair the moment you had left the hotel?”

“I do not understand.”

“You passed around the corner into—­street, did you not?”

“Very likely.  I could go that way as well as another.”

“And stopped at the first lamp-post?”

“Oh, I see.  Someone saw that childish action of mine.”

“What did you mean by it?”

“Just what you have suggested.  I did go through the pantomime of washing my hands of an affair I considered definitely ended.  I had resisted an irrepressible impulse to see and talk with Miss Challoner again, and was pleased with my firmness.  Unaware of the tragic blow which had just fallen, I was full of self-congratulations at my escape from the charm which had lured me back to this hotel again and again in spite of my better judgment, and I wished to symbolise my relief by an act of which I was, in another moment, ashamed.  Strange that there should have been a witness to it. (Here he stole a look at Sweetwater.) Stranger still, that circumstances by the most extraordinary of coincidences, should have given so unforeseen a point to it.”

“You are right, Mr. Brotherson.  The whole occurrence is startling and most strange.  But life is made up of the unexpected, as none know better than we physicians, whether our practice be of a public or private character.”