“I guess I know enough for that,” was Sweetwater’s gay rejoinder.  But when he felt that communicating wire in his hand and experienced for the first time the full influence of the other’s eye, it took all his hardihood to hide the hypnotic thrill it gave him.  Though he smiled and chatted, he could not help asking himself between whiles, what had killed the poor washerwoman across the court, and what had killed Miss Challoner.  Something visible or something invisible?  Something which gave warning of attack, or something which struck in silence.  He found himself gazing long and earnestly at this man’s hand, and wondering if death lay under it.  It was a strong hand, a deft, clean-cut member, formed to respond to the slightest hint from the powerful brain controlling it.  But was this its whole story.  Had he said all when he had said this?

Fascinated by the question, Sweetwater died a hundred deaths in his awakened fancy, as he followed the sharp short instructions which fell with cool precision from the other’s lips.  A hundred deaths, I say, but with no betrayal of his folly.  The anxiety he showed was that of one eager to please, which may explain why on the conclusion of his task, Mr. Brotherson gave him one of his infrequent smiles and remarked, as he buried the model under its cover, “You’re handy and you’re quiet at your job.  Who knows but that I shall want you again.  Will you come if I call you?”

“Won’t I?” was the gay retort, as the detective thus released, stooped for the book still lying on the floor.  “Paolo and Francesca,” he read, from the back, as he laid it on the table.  “Poetry?” he queried.

“Rot,” scornfully returned the other, as he moved to take down a bottle and some glasses from a cupboard let into another portion of the wall.

Sweetwater taking advantage of the moment, sidled towards the shelf where that empty space still gaped with the tell-tale hole at the back.  He could easily have replaced the missing book before Mr. Brotherson turned.  But the issue was too doubtful.  He was dealing with no absent-minded fool, and it behooved him to avoid above all things calling attention to the book or to the place on the shelf where it belonged.

But there was one thing he could do and did.  Reaching out a finger as deft as Brotherson’s own, he pushed a second volume into the place of the one that was gone.  This veiled the auger-hole completely; a fact which so entirely relieved his mind that his old smile came back like sunshine to his lips, and it was only by a distinct effort that he kept the dancing humour from his eyes as he prepared to refuse the glass which Brotherson now brought forward: 

“None of that!” said he.  “You mustn’t tempt me.  The doctor has shut down on all kinds of spirits for two months more, at least.  But don’t let me hinder you.  I can bear to smell the stuff.  My turn will come again some day.”

But Brotherson did not drink.  Setting down the glass he carried, he took up the book lying near, weighed it in his hand and laid it down again, with an air of thoughtful inquiry.  Then he suddenly pushed it towards Sweetwater.  “Do you want it?” he asked.