had heard of him. Nevertheless, he did not seem inclined to speak.
Mr. Gryce motioned Sweetwater from the room. With a woeful look the young detective withdrew, his last glance cast at the cutter still lying in full view on the table.
Mr. Gryce, not unmindful himself of this object, took it up, then laid it down again, with an air of seeming abstraction.
The father’s attention was caught.
“What is that?” he cried, advancing a step and bestowing more than an ordinary glance at the object thus brought casually, as it were, to his notice. “I surely recognise this cutter. Does it belong here or—”
Mr. Gryce, observing the other’s emotion, motioned him to a chair. As his visitor sank into it, he remarked, with all the consideration exacted by the situation:
“It is unknown property, Mr. Challoner. But we have some reason to think it belonged to your daughter. Are we correct in this surmise?”
“I have seen it, or one like it, often in her hand.” Here his eyes suddenly dilated and the hand stretched forth to grasp it quickly drew back. “Where—where was it found?” he hoarsely demanded. “O God! am I to be crushed to the very earth by sorrow!”
Mr. Gryce hastened to give him such relief as was consistent with the truth.
“It was picked up—last night—from the lobby floor. There is seemingly nothing to connect it with her death. Yet—”
The pause was eloquent. Mr. Challoner gave the detective an agonised look and turned white to the lips. Then gradually, as the silence continued, his head fell forward, and he muttered almost unintelligibly:
“I honestly believe her the victim of some heartless stranger. I do now; but—but I cannot mislead the police. At any cost I must retract a statement I made under false impressions and with no desire to deceive. I said that I knew all of the gentlemen who admired her and aspired to her hand, and that they were all reputable men and above committing a crime of this or any other kind. But it seems that I did not know her secret heart as thoroughly as I
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