"As a doornail. You are in luck. Alive, and the body proved to be that of her son, she would argue it out. 'Who was my son's bitterest enemy--who has always been his bitterest enemy? Who but John Fordham?' She would swear to bring the murderer to justice; she would leave no stone unturned; she would hunt you down, John; she would tell the story of your life, with embellishments, in the public court, and make your very name infamous. Lucky for you, therefore, that she is dead. As I was saying, it may be difficult to identify unmarked clothing, but not so with a watch. It is almost a living witness, and found in your possession would send you to the gallows without a tittle of other evidence. What on earth made you run off with it, and what on earth made you leave your own behind? Your health, John. Talking is dry work. Wouldn't you like to ask me a few questions?" "Tell me what you know, and how you know it. I cannot ask questions." "Anything to oblige, and in any way you please. I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver. These are capital cigars of yours; you were always a good judge of tobacco. Well, then, to begin, with the prefatory remark that one part of it might be called a chapter of accidents. I won't dwell much on the past; it isn't by any means an agreeable subject, and I am quite aware that there was no love lost between us. But one thing I will say--I think we were all unjust to one another, all a little too hard on one another, making the worst of everything instead of endeavoring to smooth it over. You had provocation; Barbara had hers. She got the idea of another woman in her head, and it drove her to excesses. You can't deny that she was mistaken in her idea; another woman there was, another woman there is--and then, there's the child. That sort of thing is enough to drive a wife mad, so you can't call yourself blameless for poor Barbara's death, because you see, John, one thing leads to another. By a process of reasoning you might be proved to be the direct cause of your wife's death, and therefore her murderer. No doubt you can justify yourself to your own satisfaction, and I am not going to argue with you, but as Barbara's brother it is due to her memory that I should say a few words on her behalf. Of course you know, through your solicitor, that when you disappeared I tried to discover your whereabouts. You were too clever for me, and for some time I was at fault; at length I found out--never mind how--that you had gone to Australia. Then came the question, had you taken the other woman with you? I found an answer to it. You had not." I pause here to say all the time Maxwell was speaking he was watching my face, as if for confirmation of certain of his statements. I did not observe it during the interview; it occurred to me afterwards when, in a calmer mood, I thought of what had taken place between us. He continued: