“But why?”
Roger hooked his arm through that of the other and piloted him in the direction of the rose garden.
“I want to stick around here,” he explained, “so as to see the inspector when he comes up the drive. I’m not going to miss the opening of that safe for anything.”
“Why do you think that confession’s a fake?” repeated Alec doggedly.
“That’s better, Alexander,” commented Roger approvingly. “You seem to be showing a little interest in my discoveries at last. You haven’t been at all a good Watson up to now, you know. It’s your business to be thrilled to the core whenever I announce a farther step forward. You’re a rotten thriller, Alec.”
A slight smile appeared on Alec’s face. “You do all the thrilling needed yourself, I fancy. Besides, old Holmes went a bit slower than you. He didn’t jump to conclusions all in a minute, and I doubt if ever he was as darned pleased with himself all the time as you are.”
“Don’t be harsh with me, Alec,” Roger murmured.
“I admit you haven’t done so badly so far,” Alec pursued candidly; “though when all’s said and done most of it’s guesswork. But if I grovelled in front of you, as you seem to want, and kept telling you what a dashed fine fellow you are, you’d probably have arrested Jefferson and Mrs. Plant by this time, and had Lady Stanworth committed for contempt of court or something.” He paused and considered. “In fact, what you want, old son,” he concluded weightily, “is a brake, not a blessed accelerator.”
“I’m sorry,” Roger said with humility. “I’ll remember in future. But if you won’t compliment me, at least let me compliment you. You’re a jolly good brake.”
“And after that, Detective Sheringham, perhaps you’ll kindly tell me how you deduce that the confession is a fake from the fact that old Stanworth’s pen wouldn’t write.”