"He was murdered last night."
"Murdered!" The fashion of his countenance changed. "Then she—she killed him."
He staggered back till he staggered against a chair. A pitiful object he presented as he perched himself upon the edge. Neither Miss Adair nor I said a word. After a moment's interval, during which the muscles of his face twitched as if he had become suddenly possessed with St. Vitus' Dance, he went rambling on, apparently not altogether conscious of what it was that he was saying.
"I knew there'd be mischief—I knew there would. I said if she would meddle in my affairs she'd make a mess of it. I told her she didn't know what she was going in for, that he was dangerous. But she's as obstinate as a mule; she never would take my advice, never!"
"Which shows that she is a lady of considerable discretion. What connection, Mr. Withers, have you with Miss Moore?"
He started forward on the chair, casting a frightened look about him.
"Is she—taken? And are you a policeman?"
"No, I am not a policeman; I have not that honour. And she is not taken—as yet. I repeat my inquiry. What connection, Mr. Withers, have you with Miss Moore?"
