“Wait!” said he.  “Take a look at poor Philemon before you disturb him.  When we broke into the house a half-hour ago he was sitting just as you see him now, and we have let him be for reasons you can easily appreciate.  Examine him closely, Mr. Sutherland; he won’t notice it.”

“But what ails him?  Why does he sit crouched against the table?  Is he hurt too?”

“No; look at his eyes.”

Mr. Sutherland stooped and pushed aside the long grey locks that half concealed the countenance of his aged friend.

“Why,” he cried, startled, “they are closed!  He isn’t dead?”

“No, he is asleep.”

“Asleep?”

“Yes.  He was asleep when we came in and he is asleep yet.  Some of the neighbours wanted to wake him, but I would not let them.  His wits are not strong enough to bear a sudden shock.”

“No, no, poor Philemon!  But that he should sit sleeping here while she—­But what do these bottles mean and this parade of supper in a room they were not accustomed to eat in?”

“We don’t know.  It has not been eaten, you see.  He has swallowed a glass of port, but that is all.  The other glasses have had no wine in them, nor have the victuals been touched.”

“Seats set for three and only one occupied,” murmured Mr. Sutherland.  “Strange!  Could he have expected guests?”

“It looks like it.  I didn’t know that his wife allowed him such privileges; but she was always too good to him, and I fear has paid for it with her life.”

“Nonsense! he never killed her.  Had his love been anything short of the worship it was, he stood in too much awe of her to lift his hand against her, even in his most demented moments.”

“I don’t trust men of uncertain wits,” returned the other.  “You have not noticed everything that is to be seen in this room.”

Mr. Sutherland, recalled to himself by these words, looked quickly about him.  With the exception of the table and what was on and by it there was nothing else in the room.  Naturally his glance returned to Philemon Webb.

“I don’t see anything but this poor sleeping man,” he began.

“Look at his sleeve.”

Mr. Sutherland, with a start, again bent down.  The arm of his old friend lay crooked upon the table, and on its blue cotton sleeve there was a smear which might have been wine, but which was—­ blood.

As Mr. Sutherland became assured of this, he turned slightly pale and looked inquiringly at the two men who were intently watching him.

“This is bad,” said he.  “Any other marks of blood below stairs?”

“No; that one smear is all.”

“Oh, Philemon!” burst from Mr. Sutherland, in deep emotion.  Then, as he looked long and shudderingly at his friend, he added slowly: 

“He has been in the room where she was killed; so much is evident.  But that he understood what was done there I cannot believe, or he would not be sleeping here like a log.  Come, let us go up-stairs.”