"Nevertheless, you can hazard an opinion. Why not? The case is over and done with now, and Penreath—or Ronald, as he called himself—is condemned to death. So who do you think broke that burner, Benson?"
"Who else but the murderer, sir?"
"That's the police theory, I know, but I doubt whether Penreath was tall enough to strike it with his head. It's more than six feet from the ground." The detective threw a critical glance over the innkeeper's figure as though he were measuring his height with his eye. "You are well over six feet, Benson—you might have done it."
It was a chance shot, but the effect was remarkable. The innkeeper swung his small head on the top of his long neck in the direction of the detective, with a strange gesture, like a pinioned eagle twisting in a trap.
"What makes you say that!" he cried, and his voice had a new and strident note. "I had nothing whatever to do with it."
"What do you mean?" replied the detective sternly. "What do you suppose I am suggesting?"
"I beg your pardon, sir," replied the other. "The fact is I have not been myself for some time past."
His voice broke off in an odd tremor, and Colwyn noticed that the long thin hand he stretched out, as though to deprecate his previous violence, was shaking violently.
"What's the matter with you, man?" The detective eyed him keenly. "Your nerve has gone."
"I know it has, sir. What happened in this house a fortnight ago upset me terribly, and I haven't got over it yet. I have other troubles as well—private troubles. I've had to sit up with mother a good deal lately."