"Oh, yes. It's very vague. Now, I can ask a question that you mustn't, do you suspect any one?"
"N-no."
"Come! are you weakening already about giving me information?"
"Suspicion—if I had any—is not fact!"
"Quibbles won't get us anywhere. I won't press you further to voice your suspicion—right now. In the meantime, I'll plod along with my investigation on the obvious lines."
"Obvious? I suppose they are to you, Mr. Creighton, but I do not see a single point of attack. Will you tell me what you plan to do, or is that also taboo?"
"I'm going to make a list of all the people that description might fit and then eliminate them one by one as circumstances dictate. I suppose competent alibis will let most of 'em out. Yes, I guess I'll have quite a fine assortment of alibis at the end." The detective was speaking easily, good-humoredly, and his voice was elaborately casual as he added:
"By the way, where were you the night of the burglary from ten to twelve?"
Copley Varr started violently and his face crimsoned. For a long minute he did not speak but sat staring angrily at his inquisitor. He clenched his hands as though ready to leap on the detective. Then, slowly, his fingers relaxed, the color faded from his cheeks and the anger from his eyes. Creighton watched the metamorphosis with approval; if he could get the best of his temper like that, would he have been likely to lose it to the extent of committing murder? Improbable!
"I was in the editorial rooms of the News from ten-thirty until quarter to twelve, when I left to catch the midnight train to New York. At least three men connected with the paper will bear me out."