“Not that?” Mr. Cardan echoed scornfully. “But it’s obvious. And you’ve as good as been telling me so for the last half hour.”
Mr. Elver could only go on whispering: “No.”
Mr. Cardan ignored the denial. “How did you propose to do it?” he asked. “It’s always risky, whatever way you choose, and I shouldn’t put you down as being particularly courageous. How, how?”
The other shook his head.
Mr. Cardan insisted, ruthlessly. “Rat’s bane?” he queried. “Steel?—no, you wouldn’t have the guts for that. Or did you mean that she should tumble by accident into one of those convenient ditches?”
“No, no. No.”
“But I insist on being told,” said Mr. Cardan truculently, and he thumped the table till the reflections of the candles in the brimming glasses quivered and rocked.
Mr. Elver put his face in his hands and burst into tears. “You’re a bully,” he sobbed, “a dirty bully, like all the rest.”
“Come, come,” Mr. Cardan protested encouragingly. “Don’t take it so hardly. I’m sorry I upset you. You mustn’t think,” he added, “that I have any of the vulgar prejudices about this affair. I’m not condemning you. Far from it. I don’t want to use your answers against you. I merely ask out of curiosity—pure curiosity. Cheer up, cheer up. Try a little more wine.”
But Mr. Elver was feeling too deplorably sick to be able to think of wine without horror. He refused it, shuddering. “I didn’t mean to do anything,” he whispered. “I meant it just to happen.”