I heard feet scraping on the stone floor of the porch. “This is a devil of a place to talk in but it’s the best we can do. Did the young man know I sent for you?” “No, sir. He was quite busy with his books and papers.” “Humph! We can never be sure of him.” “I suppose that is correct, sir.” “Well, you and Morgan are a fine pair, I must say! I thought he had some sense, and that you’d see to it that he didn’t make a mess of this thing. He’s in bed now with a hole in his arm and you’ve got to go on alone.” “I’ll do my best, Mr. Pickering.” “Don’t call me by name, you idiot. We’re not advertising our business from the housetops.” “Certainly not,” replied Bates humbly. The blood was roaring through my head, and my hands were clenched as I stood there listening to this colloquy. Pickering’s voice was—and is—unmistakable. There was always a purring softness in it. He used to remind me at school of a sleek, complacent cat, and I hate cats with particular loathing. “Is Morgan lying or not when he says he shot himself accidentally?” demanded Pickering petulantly. “I only know what I heard from the gardener here at the school. You’ll understand, I hope, that I can’t be seen going to Morgan’s house.” “Of course not. But he says you haven’t played fair with him, that you even attacked him a few days after Glenarm came.” “Yes, and he hit me over the head with a club. It was his indiscretion, sir. He wanted to go through the library in broad daylight, and it wasn’t any use, anyhow. There’s nothing there.” “But I don’t like the looks of this shooting. Morgan’s sick and out of his head. But a fellow like Morgan isn’t likely to shoot himself accidentally, and now that it’s done the work’s stopped and the time is running on. What do you think Glenarm suspects?” “I can’t tell, sir, but mighty little, I should say. The shot through the window the first night he was here seemed to shake him a trifle, but he’s quite settled down now, I should say, sir.” “He probably doesn’t spend much time on this side of the fence—doesn’t haunt the chapel, I fancy?” “Lord, no, sir! I hardly suspect the young gentleman of being a praying man.” “You haven’t seen him prowling about analyzing the architecture—” “Not a bit of it, sir. He hasn’t, I should say, what his revered grandfather called the analytical mind.” Hearing yourself discussed in this frank fashion by your own servant is, I suppose, a wholesome thing for the spirit. The man who stands behind your chair may acquire, in time, some special knowledge of your mental processes by a diligent study of the back of your head. But I was not half so angry with these conspirators as with myself, for ever having entertained a single generous thought toward Bates. It was, however, consoling to know that Morgan was lying to Pickering, and that my own exploits in the house were unknown to the executor.