Agatha Webb | Page 4

most heartrending tragedy. In this fence was a gate,
and through this gate now passed Mr. Sutherland, followed by his
would-be companion, Miss Page. A path bordered by lilac bushes led
up to the house, the door of which stood wide open. As soon as Mr.
Sutherland entered upon this path a man approached him from the
doorway. It was Amos Fenton, the constable.

"Ah, Mr. Sutherland," said he, "sad business, a very sad business! But
what little girl have you there?"
"This is Miss Page, my housekeeper's niece. She would come.
Inquisitiveness the cause. I do not approve of it."
"Miss Page must remain on the doorstep. We allow no one inside
excepting yourself," he said respectfully, in recognition of the fact that
nothing of importance was ever undertaken in Sutherland town without
the presence of Mr. Sutherland.
Miss Page curtsied, looking so bewitching in the fresh morning light
that the tough old constable scratched his chin in grudging admiration.
But he did not reconsider his determination. Seeing this, she accepted
her defeat gracefully, and moved aside to where the bushes offered her
more or less protection from the curiosity of those about her.
Meanwhile Mr. Sutherland had stepped into the house.
He found himself in a small hall with a staircase in front and an open
door at the left. On the threshold of this open door a man stood, who at
sight of him doffed his hat. Passing by this man, Mr. Sutherland
entered the room beyond. A table spread with eatables met his view,
beside which, in an attitude which struck him at the moment as peculiar,
sat Philemon Webb, the well-known master of the house.
Astonished at seeing his old friend in this room and in such a position,
he was about to address him, when Mr. Fenton stopped him.
"Wait!" said he. "Take a look at poor Philemon before you disturb him.
When we broke into the house a half-hour ago he was sitting just as
you see him now, and we have let him be for reasons you can easily
appreciate. Examine him closely, Mr. Sutherland; he won't notice it."
"But what ails him? Why does he sit crouched against the table? Is he
hurt too?"
"No; look at his eyes."

Mr. Sutherland stooped and pushed aside the long grey locks that half
concealed the countenance of his aged friend.
"Why," he cried, startled, "they are closed! He isn't dead?"
"No, he is asleep."
"Asleep?"
"Yes. He was asleep when we came in and he is asleep yet. Some of the
neighbours wanted to wake him, but I would not let them. His wits are
not strong enough to bear a sudden shock."
"No, no, poor Philemon! But that he should sit sleeping here while
she--But what do these bottles mean and this parade of supper in a
room they were not accustomed to eat in?"
"We don't know. It has not been eaten, you see. He has swallowed a
glass of port, but that is all. The other glasses have had no wine in them,
nor have the victuals been touched."
"Seats set for three and only one occupied," murmured Mr. Sutherland.
"Strange! Could he have expected guests?"
"It looks like it. I didn't know that his wife allowed him such privileges;
but she was always too good to him, and I fear has paid for it with her
life."
"Nonsense! he never killed her. Had his love been anything short of the
worship it was, he stood in too much awe of her to lift his hand against
her, even in his most demented moments."
"I don't trust men of uncertain wits," returned the other. "You have not
noticed everything that is to be seen in this room."
Mr. Sutherland, recalled to himself by these words, looked quickly
about him. With the exception of the table and what was on and by it
there was nothing else in the room. Naturally his glance returned to
Philemon Webb.

"I don't see anything but this poor sleeping man," he began.
"Look at his sleeve."
Mr. Sutherland, with a start, again bent down. The arm of his old friend
lay crooked upon the table, and on its blue cotton sleeve there was a
smear which might have been wine, but which was-- blood.
As Mr. Sutherland became assured of this, he turned slightly pale and
looked inquiringly at the two men who were intently watching him.
"This is bad," said he. "Any other marks of blood below stairs?"
"No; that one smear is all."
"Oh, Philemon!" burst from Mr. Sutherland, in deep emotion. Then, as
he looked long and shudderingly at his friend, he added slowly:
"He has been in the room where she was killed; so much is evident. But
that he understood what was done