In great astonishment and with an aspect of some severity, he asked me what I had to say now which I had not had the opportunity of saying before. I replied with all the passion of a forlorn hope that it was only at this present moment I remembered a fact which might have a very decided bearing on this case; and, detecting evidences, as I thought, of relenting on his part, I backed up this statement by an entreaty for a few words with him apart, as the matter I had to tell was private and possibly too fanciful for any ear but his own.
He looked as if he apprehended some loss of valuable time, but, touched by the involuntary gesture of appeal with which I supplemented my request, he led me into a corner, where, with just an encouraging glance toward Mr. Durand, who seemed struck dumb by my action, I told the inspector of that momentary picture which I had seen reflected in what I was now sure was some window-pane or mirror.
"It was at a time coincident, or very nearly coincident, with the perpetration of the crime you are now investigating," I concluded. "Within five minutes afterward came the shout which roused us all to what had happened in the alcove. I do not know what passage I saw or what door or even what figure; but the latter, I am sure, was that of the guilty man. Something in the outline (and it was the outline only I could catch) expressed an emotion incomprehensible to me at the moment, but which, in my remembrance, impresses me as that of fear and dread. It was not the entrance to the alcove I beheld--that would have struck me at once--but some other opening which I might recognize if I saw it.
Can not that opening be found, and may it not give a clue to the man I saw skulking through it with terror and remorse in his heart?"
"Was this figure, when you saw it, turned toward you or away?" the inspector inquired with unexpected interest.
"Turned partly away. He was going from me."
"And you sat--where?"
"Shall I show you?"
The inspector bowed, then with a low word of caution turned to my uncle.
"I am going to take this young lady into the hall for a moment, at her own request. May I ask you and Mr. Durand to await me here?"
Without pausing for reply, he threw open the door and presently we were pacing the deserted supper-room, seeking the place where I had sat. I found it almost by a miracle,--everything being in great disorder. Guided by my bouquet, which I had left behind me in my escape from the table, I laid hold of the chair before which it lay, and declared quite confidently to the inspector:
"This is where I sat."
Naturally his glance and mine both flew to the opposite wall. A window was before us of an unusual size and make. Unlike any which had ever before come under my observation, it swung on a pivot, and, though shut at the present moment, might very easily, when opened, present its huge pane at an angle capable of catching reflections from some of the many mirrors decorating the reception-room situated diagonally across the hall. As all the doorways on this lower floor were of unusual width, an open path was offered, as it were, for these reflections to pass, making it possible for scenes to be imaged here which, to the persons involved, would seem as safe from any one's scrutiny as if they were taking place in the adjoining house.
As we realized this, a look passed between us of more than ordinary significance. Pointing to the window, the inspector turned to a group of waiters watching us from the other side of the room and asked if it had been opened that evening.
The answer came quickly.
"Yes, sir,--just before the--the--"
"I understand," broke in the inspector; and, leaning over me, he whispered: "Tell me again exactly what you thought you saw."
But I could add little to my former description. "Perhaps you can tell me this," he kindly persisted. "Was the picture, when you saw it, on a level with your eye, or did you have to lift your head in order to see it?"
"It was high up,--in the air, as it were. That seemed its oddest feature."
The inspector's mouth took a satisfied curve. "Possibly I might identify the door and passage, if I saw them," I suggested.
"Certainly, certainly," was his cheerful rejoinder; and, summoning one of his men, he was about to give some order, when his impulse changed, and he asked if I could draw.
I assured him, in some surprise, that I was far from being an adept in that direction, but that possibly I might manage a rough sketch; whereupon he pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and requested me to make some sort of attempt to reproduce, on paper, my memory of this passage and the door.
My heart was beating violently, and the pencil shook in my hand, but I knew that it would not do for me to show any hesitation in fixing for all eyes what, unaccountably to myself, continued to be perfectly plain to my own. So I endeavored to do as he bade me, and succeeded, to some extent, for he uttered a slight ejaculation at one of its features, and, while duly expressing his thanks, honored me with a very sharp look.
"Is this your first visit to this house?" he asked.
"No; I have been here before."
"In the evening, or in the afternoon?"
"In the afternoon."
"I am told that the main entrance is not in use to-night."
"No. A side door is provided for occasions like the present.
Guests entering there find a special hall and staircase, by which they can reach the upstairs dressing-rooms, without crossing the main hall. Is that what you mean?"
"Yes, that is what I mean."
I stared at him in wonder. What lay back of such questions as these?
"You came in, as others did, by this side entrance," he now proceeded. "Did you notice, as you turned to go up stairs, an arch opening into a small passageway at your left?"
"I did not," I began, flushing, for I thought I understood him now. "I was too eager to reach the dressing-room to look about me."
"Very well," he replied; "I may want to show you that arch."
The outline of an arch, backing the figure we were endeavoring to identify, was a marked feature in the sketch I had shown him.
