certain
of Arthur's guilt as he did. My own case had taught me the insufficiency
of circumstantial evidence to settle a mooted fact. Besides, I knew
Arthur even better than I did his sisters. He was as full of faults, and
as lacking in amiable and reliable traits as any fellow of my
acquaintance. But he had not the inherent snap which makes for crime. He
lacked the vigour which,--God forgive me the thought!--lay back of
Carmers softer characteristics. I could not imagine him guilty; I could,
for all my love, imagine his sister so, and did. The conviction would not
leave my mind.

"Charles," said I, at last, struggling for calmness, and succeeding
better in my task than either he or I expected; "what motive do they
assign for this deed? Why should Arthur follow Adelaide to the club-house
and kill her? Now, if he had followed me--"

"You were at dinner with them that night, and know what she did and what
she vowed about the wine. He was very angry. Though he dropped his glass,
and let it shiver on the board, he himself says that he was desperately
put out with her, and could only drown his mad emotions in drink. He knew
that she would hear of it if he went to any saloon in town; so he stole
the key from your bunch, and went to help himself out of the club-house
wine-vault. That's how he came to be there. What followed, who knows? He
won't tell, and we can only conjecture. The ring, which she certainly
wore that night, might give the secret away; but it is not gifted with
speech, though as a silent witness it is exceedingly eloquent."

The episode of the ring confused me. I could make nothing out of it,
could not connect it with what I myself knew of the confused experiences
of that night. But I could recall the dinner and the sullen aspect, not
unmixed with awe, with which this boy contemplated his sister when his
own glass fell from his nerveless fingers. My own heart was not in the
business; it was on the elopement I had planned; but I could not help
seeing what I have just mentioned, and it recurred to me now with fatal
distinctness. The awe was as great as the sullenness. Did that offer a
good foundation for crime? I disliked Arthur. I had no use for the boy,
and I wished with all my heart to detect guilt in his actions, rather
than in those of the woman I loved; but I could not forget that tinge of
awe on features too heavy to mirror very readily the nicer feelings of
the human soul. It would come up, and, under t