“I hoped to catch that London detective here—but I hear he’s gone. Look here, Maclean. I’ve had time to think over what I ought to do, and I’ve decided to go to London at once and clear the matter up.” “What matter have you to clear up?” asked Mrs. Maclean. Garlett walked straight over to where she was standing and looked at her fixedly: “I am suspected of having murdered my wife, Aunt Jenny,” he said in a hard, matter-of-fact voice, “and from what I can make out that suspicion will never be laid to rest till they have dug up the poor creature and satisfied themselves that she died a natural death.” The colour drifted from Mrs. Maclean’s healthy face. “Is what he says true?” she asked, turning to her husband. “Yes and no,” he answered in a measured tone. “It’s true that Harry has some deadly enemy who is trying to fasten this awful charge on him. But my talk just now with a man named Kentworthy who was sent down from the Home Office——” “The Home Office?” Mrs. Maclean was an intelligent woman, and the words struck a note of sharp fear in her breast. The doctor went on: “I’ve just had the fellow here for over an hour, and I think I’ve convinced him that the—well, the suspicion, if you can go so far as to call it that, is absolutely groundless.” Harry Garlett broke in: “But did Kentworthy tell you what I forced him to admit to me—that nothing short of an exhumation will really settle the matter, and that unless that takes place the matter may be raised again at any time?” A tide of dismay welled up in Dr. Maclean’s heart. He 82suddenly realized that what this wild-eyed man, who looked so little like the happy, still young lover of this morning, was saying, was only too true. 82 Even so he forced himself to exclaim: “You take an exaggerated view, Harry. All I ask you to do is to await the result of my interview with the Home Office people.” Harry Garlett was staring at the speaker, a look of terrible perplexity as well as acute suffering on his face. “In any case, I suppose you would admit that our
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