which must have crossed his face
at this announcement was lost upon the constable. But his
consternation was evident from the way he thrust out either hand
to steady himself against the walls of the narrow passageway, and
Mr. Fenton was not at all surprised to hear him stammer out:
"Dead! He! Whom do you mean by he, Mr. Fenton?"
"The man in whose house we now are," returned the other. "Is there
anyone else who can be suspected of this crime?"
Sweetwater gave a gulp that seemed to restore him to himself.
"There are two men living here, both very good men, I have heard.
Which of them do you mean, and why do you think that either John
or James Zabel killed Agatha Webb?"
For reply Mr. Fenton drew him toward the room in which such a
great heart-tragedy had taken place.
"Look," said he, "and see what can happen in a Christian land, in
the midst of Christian people living not fifty rods away. These
men are dead, Sweetwater, dead from hunger. The loaf of bread you
see there came too late. It was bought with a twenty-dollar bill,
taken from Agatha Webb's cupboard drawer."
Sweetwater, to whom the whole scene seemed like some horrible
nightmare, stared at the figure of James lying on the floor, and
then at the figure of John seated at the table, as if his mind had
failed to take in the constable's words.
"Dead!" he murmured. "Dead! John and James Zabel. What will happen
next? Is the town under a curse?" And he fell on his knees before
the prostrate form of James, only to start up again as he saw the
eyes of Knapp resting on him.
"Ah," he muttered, "the detective!" And after giving the man from
Boston a close look he turned toward Mr. Fenton.
"You said something about this good old man having killed Agatha
Webb. What was it? I was too dazed to take it in."
Mr. Fenton, not understanding the young man's eagerness, but
willing enough to enlighten him as to the situation, told him what
reasons there were for ascribing the crime in the Webb cottage to
the mad need of these starving men. Sweetwater listened with open
eyes and confused bearing, only controlling himself when his eyes
by chance fell upon the quiet figure of the detective, now moving
softly to and fro through the room.
"But why murder when he could have had his loaf for the asking?"
remonstrated Sweetwater. "Agatha Webb would have gone without a
meal any time to feed a wandering tramp; how much more to supply
the necessities of two of her oldest and dearest friends!"
"Yes," remarked Fenton, "but you forget or perhaps never knew that
the master passion of these men was pride. James Zabel ask for
bread! I can much sooner imagine him stealing it; yes, or striking
a blow for it, so that the blow shut forever the eyes that saw him
do it."
"You don't believe your own words, Mr. Fenton. How can you?"
Sweetwater's hand was on the breast of the accused man as he
spoke, and his manner was almost solemn. "You must not take it for
granted," he went on, his green eyes twinkling with a curious
light, "that all wisdom comes from Boston. We in Sutherlandtown
have some sparks of it, if they have not yet been recognised. You
are satisfied"—here he addressed himself to Knapp—"that the blow
which killed Agatha Webb was struck by this respectable old man?"
Knapp smiled as if a child had asked him this question; but he
answered him good-humouredly enough.
"You see the dagger lying here with which the deed was done, and
you see the bread that was bought from Loton with a twenty-dollar
bill of Agatha Webb's money. In these you can read my answer."
"Good evidence," acknowledged Sweetwater—"very good evidence,
especially when we remember that Mr. Crane met an old man rushing
from her gateway with something glittering in his hand. I never
was so beat in my life, and yet—and yet—if I could have a few
minutes of quiet thought all by myself I am certain I could show
you that there is more to this matter than you think. Indeed, I
know that there is, but I do not like to give my reasons
at this announcement was lost upon the constable. But his
consternation was evident from the way he thrust out either hand
to steady himself against the walls of the narrow passageway, and
Mr. Fenton was not at all surprised to hear him stammer out:
"Dead! He! Whom do you mean by he, Mr. Fenton?"
"The man in whose house we now are," returned the other. "Is there
anyone else who can be suspected of this crime?"
Sweetwater gave a gulp that seemed to restore him to himself.
"There are two men living here, both very good men, I have heard.
Which of them do you mean, and why do you think that either John
or James Zabel killed Agatha Webb?"
For reply Mr. Fenton drew him toward the room in which such a
great heart-tragedy had taken place.
"Look," said he, "and see what can happen in a Christian land, in
the midst of Christian people living not fifty rods away. These
men are dead, Sweetwater, dead from hunger. The loaf of bread you
see there came too late. It was bought with a twenty-dollar bill,
taken from Agatha Webb's cupboard drawer."
Sweetwater, to whom the whole scene seemed like some horrible
nightmare, stared at the figure of James lying on the floor, and
then at the figure of John seated at the table, as if his mind had
failed to take in the constable's words.
"Dead!" he murmured. "Dead! John and James Zabel. What will happen
next? Is the town under a curse?" And he fell on his knees before
the prostrate form of James, only to start up again as he saw the
eyes of Knapp resting on him.
"Ah," he muttered, "the detective!" And after giving the man from
Boston a close look he turned toward Mr. Fenton.
"You said something about this good old man having killed Agatha
Webb. What was it? I was too dazed to take it in."
Mr. Fenton, not understanding the young man's eagerness, but
willing enough to enlighten him as to the situation, told him what
reasons there were for ascribing the crime in the Webb cottage to
the mad need of these starving men. Sweetwater listened with open
eyes and confused bearing, only controlling himself when his eyes
by chance fell upon the quiet figure of the detective, now moving
softly to and fro through the room.
"But why murder when he could have had his loaf for the asking?"
remonstrated Sweetwater. "Agatha Webb would have gone without a
meal any time to feed a wandering tramp; how much more to supply
the necessities of two of her oldest and dearest friends!"
"Yes," remarked Fenton, "but you forget or perhaps never knew that
the master passion of these men was pride. James Zabel ask for
bread! I can much sooner imagine him stealing it; yes, or striking
a blow for it, so that the blow shut forever the eyes that saw him
do it."
"You don't believe your own words, Mr. Fenton. How can you?"
Sweetwater's hand was on the breast of the accused man as he
spoke, and his manner was almost solemn. "You must not take it for
granted," he went on, his green eyes twinkling with a curious
light, "that all wisdom comes from Boston. We in Sutherlandtown
have some sparks of it, if they have not yet been recognised. You
are satisfied"—here he addressed himself to Knapp—"that the blow
which killed Agatha Webb was struck by this respectable old man?"
Knapp smiled as if a child had asked him this question; but he
answered him good-humouredly enough.
"You see the dagger lying here with which the deed was done, and
you see the bread that was bought from Loton with a twenty-dollar
bill of Agatha Webb's money. In these you can read my answer."
"Good evidence," acknowledged Sweetwater—"very good evidence,
especially when we remember that Mr. Crane met an old man rushing
from her gateway with something glittering in his hand. I never
was so beat in my life, and yet—and yet—if I could have a few
minutes of quiet thought all by myself I am certain I could show
you that there is more to this matter than you think. Indeed, I
know that there is, but I do not like to give my reasons
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