"Something of the kind."

Assuredly, Grant did not feel disposed to lay bare his secret feelings
before this persuasive superintendent and an absurdly conceited village
constable. Love, to him, was an ideal, a blend of mortal passion and
immortal fire. But the flame kindled on that secret altar had scorched
and seared his soul in a wholly unforeseen way. The discovery that
Adelaide Melhuish was another man's wife had stunned him. It was not
until the fire of sacrifice had died into parched ashes that its earlier
banality became clear. He realized then that he had given his love to a
phantom. By one of nature's miracles a vain and selfish creature was
gifted in the artistic portrayal of the finer emotions. He had worshiped
the actress, the mimic, not the woman herself. At any rate, that was how
he read the repellent notion that he should bargain with any man for the
sale of a wife.

"You might be a trifle more explicit, Mr. Grant," said the
superintendent, almost reproachfully.

"In what direction? Surely a three-years-old love affair can have little
practical bearing on Miss Melhuish's death?"

"What, then, may I ask, could bear on it more forcibly? The lady
admittedly visits you, late at night, and is found dead in a river
bordering the grounds of your house next morning, all the conditions
pointing directly to murder. Moreover--it is no secret, as the truth must
come out at the inquest--she had passed a good deal of her time while in
Steynholme, unknown to you, in making inquiries concerning you, your
habits, your surroundings, your friends. Surely, Mr. Grant, you must see
that the history of your relations with this lady, though, if I may use