He did, in fact, cry aloud, but nevertheless he shook his head. "Impossible," he groaned. "I've given her my solemn promise!" I suppose I've a reputation for being short of speech, often frank, and sometimes profane. I then allowed myself in my rage to be all three. It was to no purpose. Estabrook would not consent to tearing the cover from his affairs in any way which would cost him the breach of his confounded words of honor. "You are a madman!" I exclaimed in my vexation. "The death of your wife may be entered against you. What folly!" "Doctor," he answered quietly, "I want your help and not abuse. Your storming will not accomplish anything. You are the only living soul to whom I have confessed the presence of a skeleton in my married life, and I want you to help me. I have been told repeatedly that you are a man of courage, steadiness of nerve, scientific eminence, and high ability." I could not disagree with him. "The next thing, then, is Margaret Murchie, the servant," I said. "What of her?" "She knows something," said I. "You have heard how she talked to me, how she tried to conceal her excitement, how she treated me as a spy, how guilty she seemed, and you have indicated that you, as well as I, believe that she knows what is at the bottom of this." "Yes, yes," cried Estabrook. "I am sure that she knows. But what then--what then? What can we do?" "My dear fellow," I said, "why 'we'?" He threw up his hands and sprang out of his chair again. "I beg your pardon," he answered with a look of chagrin. "I've been under a strain, I suppose, and I forgot that you have nothing at stake." "Not so fast, Estabrook," I said. "Take another nip of the brandy. I prescribe it for you. And not so fast. I have a good deal at stake." "What?" "My case," I said. He looked at me with admiration. "Furthermore," I went on, "I feel a certain brotherhood with you, young man. You are the first person with whom I've rolled on the sod for many years. I have punched you in the neck. You are now my patient and my guest. You have confided in me. You have made an unconscious appeal to me for help. Above all, I am one of those old fogies you have mentioned, who secretly mourn the dying-out of romance. Here!--a glass!--to adventure!" Estabrook smiled sourly, but he drank. "Thank you," he said. "I appreciate your spirit and, permit me to say, also your attempt to make me treat this terrible affair in a spirit of sport. But old Margaret is the superlative of stubbornness. We cannot expect to go to her to obtain information. I have lived in the house with her for more than six years. Can I say whether she is a saint or a crafty villainess? No. I know no more now than when I shook her in my anger on the evening the Judge died. She has never addressed me of her own will since. She will give up nothing to me. You have tried her already."