blankly. The light had gone from the detective's eyes, the new born
life from his limbs. He felt weak and beaten as he contemplated this
fresh perplexity. He moistened his lips before he could speak.
"It--it seems to resolve itself into a problem in psychology," he said
wearily. "No definite, tangible proof either way. Janet was perhaps
the more likely of the two to commit murder--I know something of that
dour Scotch temperament and its slow-burning fire that suddenly
explodes into flame. She traveled with Ocky and imbibed her own share
of Oriental fatalism. On the other hand, Ocky was far the cleverer of
the two, there's no denying that. Hers would be the brain more apt to
conceive the masquerade of the monk, the promotion of the strike, the
concoction of that note with its queer phrases--'stiff-necked son of
Belial', 'thunderbolts of wrath'--all that stuff. Yet again, those are
just the expressions Janet might use if she were afflicted with a
semi-religious mania! But Ocky was better equipped mentally to carry
the scheme through, that took a cool head, and Janet, from Kitty's
account, was rather of the emotional, high-strung, hysterical type.
Oh--!" Creighton raised his two hands and dropped them despairingly.
"Krech--I'm just going around in circles!"
"There's no other place _to_ go," declared the big man morosely. "But
I disagree with your last description of Janet. She may have been
hysterical in Montreal but she was cool enough the last time I saw her.
The way she marched down to that brook with evidence of a first degree
murder under her arm! And the way she stood watching the bubbles,
nodding her head and rubbing her hands together as if to say, 'Well,
_that's_ a good job done!'-- _Creighton_! What is it?"
The detective did not reply. Perhaps he could not trust his voice,
perhaps he wished to enjoy in silence the wave of happiness and
exquisite relief that flooded his breast. He rose abruptly, and
further to conceal his emotion he walked to the French window and flung
it open.
The night was gone. The eastern sky was a blaze of crimson glory.
Some of its radiance was reflected from his face as he draw a deep
breath of the fresh morning air.
"Hullo," he said huskily. "It--it's dawn!"
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Monk of Hambleton, by Armstrong Livingston