I shrugged my shoulders.
There was nothing to be gained by getting angry.
If Terry chose to regard the solving of a murder mystery in the light of a joke, I had nothing to say; though I did think he might have realized that to me, at least, it was a serious matter.
"And you base your suspicions, do you not, upon the fact that he has queer eyes?"
"Not entirely."
"Upon what then?"
"Upon the fact that he took part in the struggle which ended in my uncle's death."
"Well, certainly, that does seem rather conclusive—there is no mistake about the foot-prints?"
"None whatever; the Mathers niggers both wore shoes, and anyway they didn't go into the cave."
"In that case I suppose it's fair to assume that Mose took part in the struggle.
Whether he was the only man or whether there was still a third, the cave itself ought to tell a pretty clear story."
Terry rose and paced up and down the room once or twice, and then came back and picked up one of the newspaper clippings.
"It says here that the boot marks of two different men are visible."
"That's the sheriff's opinion," I replied. "Though I myself, can't make out anything but the marks of Mose and the Colonel.
I examined everything carefully, but it's awfully mixed up, you know.
One really can't tell much about it."
Terry impatiently flung himself into the chair again.
"I ought to have come down last week!
If I had supposed you people could muddle matters up so thoroughly I should.
I dare say you've trampled the whole place over till there isn't one of the original marks left."
"Look here, Terry," I said. "You act as if Virginia belonged to you.
We've all been working our heads off over this business, and you come in at the last moment and quarrel with our data.
You can go over tomorrow morning and collect your own evidence if you think it's so far superior to anyone else's.
The marks are just as they were.
Boards have been laid over them and nothing's been disturbed."
"You're rather done up, old man," Terry remarked, smiling across at me good-humoredly. "Of course it's quite on the cards that Cat-Eye Mose committed the crime—but there are a number of objections.
As I understand it, he has the reputation of being a harmless, peaceable fellow not very bright but always good-natured.
He never resented an injury, was never known to quarrel with anyone, took what was given him and said thank you.
He loved Colonel Gaylord and watched over his interests as jealously as a dog.
Well now, is a man who has had this reputation all his life, a man whom everybody trusts, very likely to go off the hook as suddenly as that and—with no conceivable motive—brutally kill the master he has served so faithfully?
A man's future is in a large measure determined by his past."
"That may all be true enough," I said, "but it is very possible that people were deceived in Mose.
I have been suspicious of him from the moment I laid eyes on him.
You may think it unfair to judge a man from his physical appearance, but I wish you could once see Cat-Eye Mose yourself, and you would know what I mean.
The people around here are used to him and don't notice it so much, but his eyes are yellow—positively yellow, and they narrow in the light just like a cat's.
One night he drove Radnor and me home from a party, and I could actually see his eyes shining in the dark.
It's the most gruesome thing I ever saw; and take that on top of his habits—he carries snakes around in the front of his shirt—really, one suspects him of anything."
"I hope he isn't dead," Terry murmured wistfully. "I'd like a personal interview."
He sat sunk down in his chair for several minutes intently examining the end of his fountain pen.
"Well," he said rousing himself, "it's time we had a shy at the ghost.
We must find out in what way Radnor and Mose were connected with him, and in what way he was connected with the robbery.
Radnor could help us considerably if he would only talk—the fact that he won't talk is very suggestive.
We'll get at the truth without him, though.
Suppose you begin and tell me everything from the first appearance of the ha'nt.
I should like to get him tabulated."
"The first definite thing that reached the house," I replied, "was the night of my arrival when the roast chicken was stolen—I've told you that in detail."
"And it was that same night that Aunt What-Ever-Her-Name-Is saw the ghost in the laurel walk?"
I nodded.
"Did she say what it looked like?"
"It was white."