The sergeant rooted about with a certain methodical deliberation, finally coming to a small bureau, the drawers of which he pulled open with the manner of one who expects nothing. Martin’s personal property was in truth scanty. He paused at the bottom drawer and looked up.
“Matter of fact, Mr. Derrick, while we know our dead friend is the fellow who held the knife, we’ve got to admit that we can’t prove it unless we drag the truth out of the others. Martin must know perfectly well that he’s up against a sort of third degree examination, and what convinces me that he’s ready to give us the inside of this thing is that already he’s looking almost cheerful. And if he weakens, that woman Perkins will weaken, too. I’m about finished here now.”
He jerked open the last drawer as he spoke, jerked so strongly that it came out on the floor. Like the others it was empty. But between the bottom of it and the floor itself lay a small bundle of dirty shirts.
“Your man isn’t what you’d call exactly a careful housekeeper. He needs a wife.” He picked up the bundle between thumb and forefinger. “Look at this.”
Came a dull knock, a clatter on the floor, and a knife with a broad, curved blade a foot long and a strangely carved handle slid across the floor and rested almost touching the lifeless palm of the peddler. The big man drew in his breath with a great gust and stood glowering. His eyes met Derrick’s.
“Call in your gardener!” he said huskily.
Derrick’s brain was in a whirl. He stared back and, not trusting himself to speak, tapped at the window. He could see Peters pacing slowly up and down in front of the Lodge, and Martin, who was still standing in the same place, apparently plunged in thought. The latter turned at the sound, mechanically touched his cap, and came slowly back. The sergeant nodded, put his hand in his pocket, and stepped a little on one side of the door. A shadow darkened the threshold, and as the gardener crossed it a grasp of iron fastened on his shoulder.
“John Martin, I arrest you for complicity in the murder of Henry Millicent. Anything you now say may be used against you.”
A few minutes later Derrick walked slowly and rather wearily toward the house, and Edith met him at the door. For her the past hour had been full of a drama almost too tense for her practical soul, and she realized what it must have meant to her brother. One look at his face was enough. She hooked her arm into his and led him into the dining-room, where dinner was ready. At the door she pressed his hand for an understanding instant.
“I’m not going to say a thing about it, nor are you, till afterward. Perkins saw the whole thing, and the poor woman is happier than I’ve ever seen her. Congratulations, brother; and now forget it for an hour.”