The spasm of sudden terror which contorted the innkeeper's face was a revelation to the three men who were watching him closely.
"I don't know anything about it," he quavered weakly.
"That won't go down, Benson!" Galloway was quick to follow up his stroke, shaking his head fiercely, like a dog worrying a rat. "You were seen carrying the body downstairs, the night of the murder. You might as well own up to it, first as last. Lies will not help you. We know too much for you to wriggle out of it. And never mind smoothing your hair down like that. We know all about that scar on your forehead, and how you got it."
A wooden clock, standing on the mantelpiece, measured off half a minute in heavy ticks. Then the innkeeper, in a voice which was little more than a whisper, spoke:
"It is true. I carried the body downstairs."
"Why did you not tell us this before?"
"It would not have made any difference."
"What!" Superintendent Galloway's indignation and amazement threatened to choke his utterance. "You keep silence till an innocent man is almost hanged for your misdeeds, and now have the brazen effrontery to say it makes no difference."
"Is Mr. Penreath innocent?"
"Nobody should know that better than you."