"Nothing proved?" Dykeman huddled in his chair and shivered. Cummings shook out an overcoat and helped him into it. He settled back with a protesting air of being about to leave us, and finished squeakily, "Didn't need to prove that he had Clayte's suitcase."
"Good Lord, Mr. Dykeman! You're not lending yourself to accuse a man like Worth Gilbert of so grave a crime as murder, just because you found his ideas irregular—maybe reckless—in a matter of money?"
"Don't answer, Dykeman!" Cummings jumped in. "Boyne's trying to get you to talk."
The old chap stared at me doubtfully, then broke loose with a snort,
"See here, Boyne, you can't get away from it; your man Gilbert has embarked on a criminal career: mixed up in the robbery of our bank, with Clayte to rob us; had our own attorney go through the form of raising money to buy us off from the pursuit of Clayte—"
"How about me?" I stuck in the question as he paused for breath. "Do you think Worth Gilbert would put me on the track of a man he didn't want found?"
Cummings cut in ahead to answer for him,
"Just the point. You've not done any good at the inquiry; never will, so long as you stand with Worth Gilbert. He needed a detective who would believe in him through thick and thin. And he found such a man in you."
I could not deny it when Dykeman yipped at me,
"Ain't that true? If it was anybody else, wouldn't you see the connection? Captain Gilbert came here to Santa Ysobel that Saturday night—as we've got witnesses to testify—had a row with his father—we've got witnesses for that, too—the word money passed between them again and again in that quarrel—and then the young man had the nerve to walk into our bank next morning with his father's entire holdings of our stock in Clayte's suitcase—Boyne, you're crazy!"