or three of the police instantly put their hands on Royce; but to the rest it seemed as if all reason had broken up and the universe were turning into a brainless harlequinade.
“None of that, Mr. Royce,” Gilder had called out authoritatively. “I shall arrest you for assault.”
“No, you won’t,” answered the secretary in a voice like an iron gong, “you will arrest me for murder.”
Gilder threw an alarmed glance at the man knocked down; but since that outraged person was already sitting up and wiping a little blood off a substantially uninjured face, he only said shortly: “What do you mean?”
“It is quite true, as this fellow says,” explained Royce, “that Miss Armstrong fainted with a knife in her hand. But she had not snatched the knife to attack her father, but to defend him.”
“To defend him,” repeated Gilder gravely. “Against whom?”
“Against me,” answered the secretary.
Alice looked at him with a complex and baffling face; then she said in a low voice: “After it all, I am still glad you are brave.”
“Come upstairs,” said Patrick Royce heavily, “and I will show you the whole cursed thing.”
The attic, which was the secretary’s private place (and rather a small cell for so large a hermit), had indeed all the vestiges of a violent drama. Near the centre of the floor lay a large revolver as if flung away; nearer to the left was rolled a whisky bottle, open but not quite empty. The cloth of the little table lay dragged and trampled, and a length of cord, like that found on the corpse, was cast wildly across the windowsill. Two vases were smashed on the mantelpiece and one on the carpet.