“Mrs. Jeffrey’s death was a strange one,” her husband admitted with tardy self-control. “I find myself as much at a loss to understand it as you do, and am therefore quite ready to answer the question you have so openly broached. Not that my answer has any bearing upon the point you wish to make, but because it is your due and my pleasure. I did visit the Moore house, as I certainly had every right to do. The property was my wife’s, and it was for my interest to learn, if I could, the secret of its many crimes.” “Ah!” Mr. Jeffrey looked quickly up. “You think that an odd thing for me to do?” “At night. Yes.” “Night is the time for such work. I did not care to be seen pottering around there in daylight.” “No? Yet it would have been so much easier. You would not have had to buy candles or carry a pistol or—” “I did not carry a pistol. The only pistol carried there was the one with which my demented wife chose to take her life. I do not understand this allusion.” “It grew out of a misunderstanding of the situation, Mr. Jeffrey; excuse me if I supposed you would be likely to provide yourself with some means of defense in venturing alone upon the scene of so many mysterious deaths.” “I took no precaution.” “And needed none, I suppose.” “And needed none.” “When was this visit paid, Mr. Jeffrey? Before or after your wife pulled the trigger which ended her life? You need not hesitate to answer.” “I do not.” The elegant gentleman before us had acquired a certain fierceness. “Why should I? Certainly, you don’t think that I was there at the same time she was. It was not on the same night, even. So much the walls should have told you and probably did, or my wife’s uncle, Mr. David Moore. Was he not your informant?” “No; Mr. Moore has failed to call our attention to this fact. Did you meet Mr. Moore during the course of your visit to a neighborhood over which he seems to hold absolute sway?” “Not to my knowledge. But his house is directly opposite, and as he has little to do but amuse himself with what he can see from his front window, I concluded that he might have observed me going in.” “You entered by the front door, then?” “How else?” “And on what night?” Mr. Jeffrey made an effort. These questions were visibly harassing him. “The night before the one—the one which ended all my earthly happiness,” he added in a low voice. Coroner Z. cast a glance at me. I remembered the lack of dust on the nest of little tables from which the upper one had been drawn forward to hold the candelabrum, and gently shook my head. The coroner’s eyebrows went up, but none of his disbelief crept into his voice as he made this additional statement. “The night on which you failed to return to your own house.” Instantly Mr. Jeffrey betrayed by a nervous action, which was quite involuntary, that his outward calm was slowly giving way under a fire of questions for which he had no ready reply.