“No; if, in a sense, he had been poisoned, there was literally nothing that could be detected by the most skilled analysis. But, my dear fellow, there are venoms that leave _no_ internal trace. If I am right--and I think I am--he was destroyed by one of these. He had been a great traveller, had he not?” “Yes,” answered Maitland. “Well, it is strange; the murderer must have been a great traveller also. He must have been among the Macoushi Indians of Guiana, and well acquainted with their arts. I know them too. I went there botanizing.” “You won’t be more explicit?” “No,” he said; “you must take it on my word, after all.” Maitland, if not convinced, was silent He had knowledge enough of Barton, and of his healthy and joyous nature, to be certain that his theory was no morbid delusion; that he had good grounds for an opinion which, as he said, he could no longer, prove--which was, indeed, now incapable of any proof. No one had seen the commission of the crime, and the crime was of such a nature, and so cunningly planned, that it could not possibly be otherwise brought home to the murderer. Now Maitland, knowing the _Hit or Miss_, and the private room up-stairs with the dormer windows, where the deed must have been done, if done at all, was certain that there could not possibly have been any eye-witness of the crime. “What shall you do?” he asked, “or have you done anything in consequence of your discovery? Have you been to the police?” “No,” said Barton; “where was the use? How can I prove anything now? It is not as if poison had been used, that could be detected by analysis. Besides, I reflected that if I was right, the less fuss made, the more likely was the murderer to show his hand. Supposing he had a secret motive--and he must have had--he will act on that motive sooner or later. The quieter everything is kept, the more he feels certain he is safe, the sooner he will move in some way or other. Then, perhaps, there may be a chance of detecting him; but it’s an outside chance. Do you know anything of the dead man’s past history?” “Nothing, except that he was from the North, and had lived a wandering life.” “Well, we must wait and see. But there is his daughter, left under your care. What do you mean to do about _her?_” The question brought Maitland back to his old perplexities, which were now so terribly increased and confused by what he had just been told. “I was going to tell you, when you broke in with this dreadful business. Things were bad before; now they are awful,” said Maitland. “_His daughter has disappeared!_ That was what I was coming to: that was the rest of my story. It was difficult and distressing enough before I knew what you tell me; now--great Heavens! what am I to do?” He turned on the sofa, quite overcome. Barton put his hand encouragingly on his shoulder, and sat so for some minutes. “Tell me all about it, old boy?” asked Barton, at length.