I said. "I believe, Mr. Dexter, you have
ideas of your own about the mystery of her death?"

He had been looking at my hand, resting on the arm of his chair,
until I ventured on my question. At that he suddenly raised his
eyes, and fixed them with a frowning and furtive suspicion on my
face.

"How do you know I have ideas of my own?" he asked, sternly.

"I know it from reading the Trial," I answered. "The lawyer who
cross-examined you spoke almost in the very words which I have
just used. I had no intention of offending you, Mr. Dexter."

His face cleared as rapidly as it had clouded. He smiled, and
laid his hand on mine. His touch struck me cold. I felt every
nerve in me shivering under it; I drew my hand away quickly.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "if I have misunderstood you. I
_have_ ideas of my own about that unhappy lady. "He paused and
looked at me in silence very earnestly. "Have _you_ any ideas?"
he asked. "Ideas about her life? or about her death?"

I was deeply interested; I was burning to hear more.