The old gentleman went on. “In the evening, about nine o’clock, some one came to see Mr. Philip. He was a big, portly party, very well dressed, with shiny black hair, and I noticed that his fingers were covered with rings. I set him down for a Jew. He wouldn’t give his name, and when I told him Mr. Philip wasn’t in, he said he’d call again. He came again, about eleven. Mr. Philip hadn’t returned; so he gave me a letter, and told me to give it to him directly he did. It was just past twelve when Mr. Philip did come in. I gave him the letter, though I was in two minds as to whether I hadn’t better keep it till the morning, for I smelt that there was mischief in it; and now I wish I had, for directly he opened it Mr. Philip broke into the worst rage I ever saw him in. He was like a man stark mad. ‘That brother of mine,’ he screamed, ‘is a more infernal scoundrel even than I thought he was; I’ll kill him if I can find him!’ And he tore out of the house before I could move to stop him.” Again the red silk handkerchief went across Mr. Morley’s forehead. The mere recollection of the scene bedewed his brow with sweat. “Well, sir, I sat up for him all night, and my wife, she sat up to keep me company; but he never came home. We listened to every sound, and we jumped at every footstep that came near the house, thinking it was him. Emma--that’s Mrs. Morley--kept on snivelling pretty nearly all the time. ‘Joe,’ she kept on saying--my name’s Joe, sir, leastways Joseph--‘Joe, do you think that Mr. Philip’s killing him?’ “To be asked such a question made one feel like killing her; for it was the very question which I kept putting to myself all through the night. My feeling was that Mr. Philip had been drinking more than he was used to, and that letter found him in an evil mood; and when he’s in one of his rages he’s not the good, kind-hearted, fair-minded gentleman he generally is, he’s more like a raving lunatic, although I say it, and capable of anything. “When morning came, and there were still no signs of him, I couldn’t stand it any longer. So I came round to see Mr. Edwin, and directly I came they told me he had been murdered. Murdered! Murdered!” He repeated the word again and again, as if he found a ghastly pleasure in the repetition. I paced up and down, pondering the tale as he had told it. I perceived how, from his point of view, the case looked black against his master. Yet still I felt persuaded that there was something in the whole business which was beyond our comprehension, and that, when we learned what that something was, it would be conclusively shown that the deductions which he drew were erroneous. “Do you think that Mr. Philip killed him?” “No, Morley, I do not. But I think that, if you get a chance, you’ll hang him.” “Hang Mr. Philip? Me? No, not--not if he’d killed Mr. Edwin a dozen times over.”