"Tell us," Pritchard asked, "what has become of Mathers?"
He stopped swinging the doll, shivered for a moment, and then
laughed.
"I don't mind," he declared. "I guess I don't mind telling. You
see, whatever I was when I did it, I am mad now--quite mad. My
friend Pritchard here says I am mad. I must have been mad or I
shouldn't have tried to hurt that dear beautiful lady over
there."
He leered at Elizabeth, who shrank back.
"She ran away from me some time ago," he went on, "sick to death
of me she was. She thought she'd got all my money. She hadn't.
There's plenty more, plenty more. She ran away and left me with
Mathers. She was paying him so much a week to keep me quiet, not
to let me go anywhere where I should talk, to keep me away from
her so that she could live up here and see all her friends and
spend my money. And at first I didn't mind, and then I did mind,
and I got angry with Mathers, and Mathers wouldn't let me come
away, and three nights ago I killed Mathers."
There was a little thrill of horror. He looked from one to the
other. By degrees their fear seemed to become communicated to
him.
"What do you mean by looking like that, all of you?" he
exclaimed. "What does it matter? He was only my man-servant. I
am Wenham Gardner, millionaire. No one will put me in prison for
that. Besides, he shouldn't have tried to keep me away from my
wife. Anyway, it don't matter. I am quite mad. Mad people can
do what they like.
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