My God! What danger we were all in! While we shivered and shook over ghosts and nightmares, light footsteps in the wall and draughts of cold air going by, a dangerous gang of thieves had actually taken up its abode with us; one of them was hiding somewhere in the old house, the others served us, walked about amongst us, took our orders, spoke to us discreetly with soft voices and hypocritical, lowered eyes. We were entirely at their mercy and the only suspecting person in the house, Paul Dabney, suspected _me_. Undoubtedly he, too, had explained to his own satisfaction the mystery of “The Pines,” and _his_ explanation was--Janice Gale. He knew nothing about me, but he did--he must--know something about Mrs. Brane's mysterious fortune. Bobbie's nightmares, the strand of hair about his little fingers, were evidence enough against my innocence. I might be a sleep-walker,--he could not prove that I was not,--but in his heart he believed me to be a sleep-walker with a purpose. He was watching me, playing amateur detective in the house. He had constituted himself a guardian of Mrs. Brane. Perhaps he was in love with her.
You see, this is not only the history of the Pine Cone mystery. It is the history of my love for Paul Dabney. This must be understood, for it explains my actions. The part I managed to play, which it astounds me even now to think that I was able to play, would barely have been possible without the goad of my bitterness and pain and anger. I would have gone at once to Paul Dabney and have told him everything I knew and let him call in outside help. But, ever since he had held me by the wrist and, in spite of his very apparent mental abhorrence for me, had taken me into his arms, my pride was up. I would fight this thing through alone. I would make no appeal to him, rather I would save the household myself, and when I had exposed the real criminal and shamed Paul Dabney's cruelty to a lonely girl and humbled him in his conceit, I would go away and begin life again as far as possible from him.
This resolution utterly possessed me. Under its spur I began to think with great lucidity. I suppose it was then, at about four o'clock on that November morning, with the quiet house sleeping around me and the quiet world outside just faintly turning gray with dawn, that I began to see the weapon which lay within my grasp. It was a matter of turning the situation upside down. In fact, if we did that more often with our mental tangles, if suddenly in the midst of a train of thought we made a _volte-face_, and from looking at things from our own obvious viewpoint, we suddenly chose a right angle for contemplation, I am sure there would be many illuminations similar to mine that night. But I did not make any _volte-face_ deliberately. It was a sort of accident. Quite suddenly I saw the situation as though I were a criminal myself, a criminal or a sleuth, the mental attitude must be in some respects the same. What advantage did this fantastic resemblance give the woman downstairs that it did not also give me?