Without showing surprise, he walked towards the door.
"Good evening, Mr. Perris," he said quickly. "Come this way."
Perris followed the solicitor down the hall to a room at the end which Wroxdale used as a study. He took off his hat as he entered, and stood waiting while Wroxdale turned up the reading-lamp which stood on his desk.
"Sit down," said Wroxdale, pointing to one of the easy-chairs which flanked the hearthrug. He took the opposite one himself, and gave his visitor a keen glance. "So you want to see me, Mr. Perris?" he added. "Business, eh?"
Perris laid his hat and stick on the floor at his side, and folded his big hands, thumbs up, across his knees.
"Why, ye see, Mestur Wroxdale," he began, "you did a bit o' business for me once or twice, and I thowt I'd liefer come to you nor to any other, sir. Ye're no doubt aware, Mestur Wroxdale, 'at I've been away fro' this neighbourhood for a piece?"
"Some time, I think," answered Wroxdale.
"Aye, some time," continued Perris. "Ye see sir, I had mi reasons for leavin' this part o' t' country. Aye, I went to London and started on a bit o' horsedealin', and I were doin' nicely at it an' all. Howsomiver, this mornin' I were at t' Caledonian Market as they call it—it's a queerish place, but ye can now and then pick up a bargain o' sorts theer—and I chanced across yon there Mestur Mallins—Roger Mallins, him as farms out yonder at Woodbridge—and of course, we took a glass together, and he telled me some news o' t' owd neighbourhood, and 'specially this news about all t' recent goin's on at Cherry-trees. An', of course, it were all reight news to me, 'cause I'd niver heerd word on it afore."
"You'd heard—nothing?"
"Nowt, sir! I'm not one for readin' t' newspapers," replied Perris, "and ye see, I'd done—or wanted to ha' done wi' this part o' t' country an' t' owd life. Howsomiver, this feller Mallins, he telled me a deal, and I understand 'at they foun' t' body o' yon theer man, Webster—Pippany, as they called him—'at were once employed by me, and 'at now my wife's accused o' killin' the chap, and of getting rid o' me an' all. Is that reight, or is it wrong, Mestur Wroxdale?"
Wroxdale inclined his head.
"Right!" he answered.
Perris looked at the ceiling and sniffed.
"Well, sir," he said slowly, "it's a varry 'queer thing to me how folk gets mista'en notions into their heads. Howsomiver, as you say it is so, it is so, I reckon. Then—my wife's i' danger, Mestur Wroxdale?"
"Your wife is in serious danger," replied Wroxdale. She is in such serious danger that she may be arrested at any moment."
"Aw!" said Perris. "Aw! Why, then, sir, it's as well I came back. I think, as she's charged wi' t' matter, we mun as well hev' it cleared up reight. 'Cause it were not my wife, Mestur Wroxdale, 'at made away wi' Webster. It were me!"
For a full moment Wroxdale made no answer. He had wondered, when Perris presented himself, if the man was intoxicated and had speedily decided that he was not; now he wondered if Perris had lost his reason. He let Perris speak again before he himself spoke.
"Not her at all," said Perris. "She's nowt to do wi' t' matter. It were me!"
Wroxdale picked up the poker and stirred the fire: the mere act of doing something physical was a relief to his nerves. He sat up again and regarded Perris steadily.
"You say that you killed Pippany Webster?" he said.
"Aye, I killed him!" answered Perris. "I made away wi' t' chap reight enough."
"You know what you're saying?" asked Wroxdale. "You're quite sure you know what you're saying?"
"I know what I'm saying, sir, and I'm going to say, it to t' police, if you'll tell me how to act about it," replied Perris stoutly. "We'll clear t' matter up."
"But—do you realise what it means to you asked Wroxdale earnestly. "It may be—death."
"I know that an' all," said Perris. "An'—I don't care."
Wroxdale rose from his chair and paced the room. He had never known an experience of this sort in the whole course of his career, and he was puzzled beyond measure.
"Was it—was it accidental?" he asked, suddenly stopping in front of Perris and staring down at him in wonder. "It was, eh?"
Perris shook his head.
"No, sir, it were nowt o' t' sort," he answered. "It were what I understand—I'm no gre't scholar—what I understand they term deliberate. I meant to kill t' feller, and I did kill him."
"But—why?" asked Wroxdale.
Perris's face suddenly became sullen, and he shook his head.
"I shalln't tell nobody why I killed t' man," he answered. "That's my business. But," he added, his face clearing again, "I'll tell you, and I'll tell t' police how and where it wor 'at I made away wi' him. It were one Sunda' night—I can't reightly fix t' exact date, but our Rhoda were singing a new piece that night down at t' chappil, and t' preacher had been to tea wi' us. When they'd gone, I wor alone, d'ye see, an' this Webster he come moochin' round like, and I led him into t' granary, and as I say, I hed mi reasons for makin' away wi' him, and I made away wi' him. An' later on, I put t' body away i' t' owd well."
Wroxdale sat down and stared at the man who had voluntarily made this extraordinary confession. Was he sane? He could see no sign of insanity in him; he talked coherently, intelligently—and yet, what sane man would boldly appear and give up his liberty, life, in this fashion?
"You want to make a confession to the police?" he asked suddenly.
"That's what I come to you about, sir," answered Perris. "I know naught about no confessions to t' police—I want to tell t' truth. If so be 'at my wife's i' danger—why, then, she mun be putten out o' danger, an'—"
Wroxdale gave way to a sharp feeling of humanity. He rose impulsively from his chair, and laid his hand on Perris's shoulder.
"Perris!" he exclaimed. "Tell me the truth! You're not making all this up, not inventing it, to shield your wife? Out with the truth, now?"
Perris looked up wonderingly, and the solicitor knew at once that he had listened to the naked truth.
"Eh, Lord bless you, no, sir!" he answered. "I telled you just how it all were. My wife knew naught about it. Nobody knew naught about it. It were nobody but me—nobody!"
Wroxdale took away his hand, and turned to his desk. But before he could sit down, the maid who admitted Perris knocked at the door and called him out.
"Wait a moment, Perris," he said, as he left the room.
Perris folded his hands and twiddled his thumbs.
"As many as is agreeable to you, sir," he answered.
Outside in the hall Wroxdale confronted Taffendale, the inspector, and, behind them, half-hidden in the shadows, a cloaked and hooded figure which he instinctively guessed to be Rhoda's. And with a quick recognition of the situation he raised his hand in the gesture of silence, and beckoned the two men aside out of earshot of the woman.
"Hush!"
