A. Yes, sometimes, to pass the time.

Q. Do you play for money?

A. Sometimes for a small stake—­just enough to make it interesting.

Q. Are you familiar with the house in which Mr. Darrow was murdered?

A. I have only such knowledge of it as I acquired at the examination immediately after the murder.  You will remember I entered but the one room.

Q. And the grounds about the house?  Surely you examined them?

A. On the contrary, I did not.

Q. Did you not even examine the eastern side of the house?

A. I did not.  I have never been within the gate save on the night in question, and then only to traverse the front walk to and from the house in company with Messieurs Osborne and Allen.  I was convinced that the solution of the problem was to be found within the room in which the murder was committed, and that my notes taken the night of the tragedy contained all the data I could hope to get.

Q. Was not this rather a singular assumption?

A. For many doubtless it would be; but I have my own methods, and I think I may say they have been measurably successful in most cases. [This last was said with a good-natured smile and a modest dignity that completely won the audience.]

At this point Maitland dismissed M. Godin and the court adjourned for the day.  That night M. Godin made his first call upon Gwen.  Their interview was private, and Gwen had nothing to say about it further than that her caller had not hesitated to inform her that he was aware a reward had been offered and that he considered he had earned it.  Maitland questioned her as to what he had claimed as his due, but Gwen, with her face alternately flushed and ashen, begged to be permitted to keep silence.

This attitude was, of course, not without its significance to Maitland, and it was easy to see that M. Godin’s visit had much displeased him.  But he was not the only one who was displeased that night.  I regret that my promise of utter candour compels me to bear witness to my own foolishness; for when Maitland found it necessary to take Jeannette into the back parlour and to remain there alone with her in earnest conversation one hour and twelve minutes—­I happened to notice the exact time—­it seemed to me he was getting unpleasantly confidential, and it nettled me.  You may fancy that I was jealous, but it was, most likely, only pique, or, at the worst, envy.  I was provoked at the nonchalant ease with which this fellow did offhand a thing I had been trying to work myself up to for several days, and had finally abandoned from sheer lack of courage.  Why couldn’t I carelessly say to her, “Miss Jeannette, a word with you if you please,” and then take her into the parlour and talk a “whole history.”  Oh, it was envy, that’s what it was!  And then the change in Jeannette!  If he had not been making love to her—­well, I have often wondered since if it were all envy, after all.