My theories were rudely disturbed shortly after that by a visit from Martin Sprague. I fancied that Willie had sent him, but he evaded my question.
“I’d like another look at that slip of paper,” he said. “Where do you keep it, by the way?”
“In a safe place,” I replied non-committally, and he laughed. The truth was that I had taken out the removable inner sole of a slipper and had placed it underneath, an excellent hiding-place, but one I did not care to confide to him. When I had brought it downstairs, he read it over again carefully, and then sat back with it in his hand.
“Now tell me about everything,” he said.
I did, while he listened attentively. Afterward we walked back to the barn, and I showed him the piece of broken halter still tied there.
He surveyed it without comment, but on the way back to the house he said: “If the village is lined up as you say it is, I suppose it is useless to interview the harness-maker. He has probably repaired that strap, or sold a new one, to whoever— It would be a nice clue to follow up.”
“I am not doing detective work,” I said shortly. “I am trying to help some one who is dying of anxiety and terror.”
He nodded. “I get you,” he said. But his tone was not flippant. “The fact is, of course, that the early theory won’t hold. There has been a crime, and the little old lady did not commit it. But suppose you find out who did it. How is that going to help her?”
“I don’t know, Martin,” I said, in a sort of desperation. “But I have the most curious feeling that she is depending on me. The way she spoke the day I saw her, and her eyes and everything; I know you think it nonsense,” I finished lamely.
“I think you’d better give up the place and go back to town,” he said. But I saw that he watched me carefully, and when, at last he got up to go, he put a hand on my shoulder.
“I think you are right, after all,” he said. “There are a good many things that can’t be reasoned out with any logic we have, but that are true, nevertheless. We call it intuition, but it’s really subconscious intelligence. Stay, by all means, if you feel you should.”
In the doorway he said: “Remember this, Miss Agnes. Both a crime of violence and a confession like the one in your hand are the products of impulse. They are not, either of them, premeditated. They are not the work, then, of a calculating or cautious nature. Look for a big, emotional type.”
It was a day or two after that that I made my visit to Miss Emily. I had stopped once before, to be told with an air of finality that the invalid was asleep. On this occasion I took with me a basket of fruit. I had half expected a refusal, but I was admitted.
The Bullard girl was with Miss Emily. She had, I think, been kneeling beside the bed, and her eyes were red and swollen. But Miss Emily herself was as cool, as dainty and starched and fragile as ever. More so, I thought. She was thinner, and although it was a warm August day, a white silk shawl was wrapped around her shoulders and fastened with an amethyst brooch. In my clasp her thin hand felt hot and dry.