Martin sent him an indescribable glance. “I don’t quite follow, sir.”
“I was wondering,” went on Derrick in the same clear tones, “whether it was possible that any one answering to the description of this stranger had been hanging about the night Mr. Millicent was killed. Things like that have been known to happen.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk that way, sir.” Martin’s face was now desperate, and he glanced apprehensively over his shoulder.
Derrick smiled reassuringly. “I can’t see that there’s any harm done by mentioning it, and it might be as well to let your friend know that we’re not asleep.”
The man winced as though struck. “Mr. Derrick, sir, if there’s anything you want to say about Mr. Millicent now, couldn’t we go a few steps up the drive? It isn’t wise, is it, that this fellow should know anything about it?”
“What’s the matter with you, Martin?”
“Nothing, sir, but I can’t help being upset when I talk about the thing.”
Derrick hesitated, then thrust the probe still deeper. “I can’t see what difference would be made if he did learn of it. However, let that go, and perhaps you’re right. You remember my asking you if anything was missed at that time?”
“Yes, sir, and I told you all I knew.”
“And the motive for the crime is as much a mystery to you as ever?”