“It’s really come, then?” he gasped, as he turned, his face blanching deathly pale.
“Damn you, Baxter! hold your tongue!” said Tempest, whose mind, accustomed to criminal work, at once saw the danger of the ghastly remark the solicitor had made. “Robson,” he added, for he recognised the inspector, “what’s this arrest for?”
“Murder of Sir John Rellingham, sir.”
“But I understood Parkyns had got that case in hand?”
“So he has, Mr. Tempest. I’m simply making the arrest for him. He’s ill in bed.”
“What’s your evidence, Robson?”
“There’s a lot, Mr. Tempest—all that secret trust business.”
“Oh, that’s only the halfpenny rag stuff! You haven’t arrested Mr. Baxter on that. What’s turned up fresh? Come on—out with it. You’ll have to tell the magistrate under twenty-four hours.”
“Well, Mr. Tempest, a revolver has been found in Mr. Baxter’s rooms, with one chamber empty, whilst the other bullets match the one Sir John Rellingham was killed with.”
“It’s a——” began the solicitor, but Tempest’s hand closed on his arm like a vice. “Be quiet,” he said; adding, “I can’t do much before the magistrate, but I’ll be there.”