The big voice had come down to a mere whisper. Plenty of passion now—a passion of terror. I spoke quickly.
"We know you were in the study that night, with a companion," and I piled out the worst of his affair, as I'd read it in the diaries, winding up,
"Plain what brought you there. Quarrel? Motive? Don't need to look any further."
Before I was done Jim Edwards had groped over to a chair and slumped into it. A queer, toneless voice asked,
"Worth sent you to me—a detective—with this?"
"No," I said. "I'm acting on my own."
"And against his will," it came back instantly.
"What of it?" I demanded. "Are you the coward to take advantage of his sense of honor?—to let his generosity cost him his life?"
"His life." That landed. Watching, I saw the struggle that tore him. He jumped up and started toward me; I hadn't much doubt that I was now going to hear a plea for mercy—a confession, of sorts—as he stopped, dropped his head, and stood scowling at the floor.
"Talk," I said. "Spill it. Now's your time."