At about midnight Sam came in with my expected guest, and we had a rarebit and ale. In the midst of the good feeling thus established, Rosenthal broke forth in the very explanation I had been expecting from the first.
"I say! you were with old Gillespie when he died."
"The fact is well known," I returned, refraining from glancing at Sam, though much inclined to do so.
"Well, I've a mighty curiosity about that case; seems somehow as if I had had a hand in it."
There was champagne on the table; I pushed the bottle towards Sam, who proceeded to open it. While this was going on I answered Mr. Rosenthal, with all the appearance of surprise he doubtless expected:
"How's that? Oh, I think I understand. You are a neighbour. All who live near them must feel somewhat as you do."
"It isn't that," he protested, draining his glass, which Sam immediately refilled. "I have never told anyone,—I don't know why I tell you fellows,—but I was almost in at that death. You see, the windows of my room look directly down on the little den in which he died, and I chanced to be looking in its direction just as——"
Here he stopped to enjoy his second glass. As the rim slowly rose, obscuring his eyes, I caught an admiring Hm! from Sam, which filled, without relieving, this moment of suspense. As the glass rang down again on the table, Rosenthal finished his sentence:
"—just as Mr. Gillespie lifted his window to empty out a glass of something. Now, what was that something? I have asked myself a dozen times since his death."
"But this is evidence! This is a fact you ought to have communicated to the police," broke in Underhill, with momentary fire. Perhaps it was a real one, perhaps it was the means he used to draw Rosenthal out.