"I'll just bet you'd 'a' beaned me one with that as soon as not, eh, Miss Deane?"
Clancy suddenly grew cautious. Perhaps this was an attempt to make her admit that she would not shrink from violence. Detectives were uncanny creatures.
"I should hate to do anything like that," she said.
Spofford guffawed heartily.
"I'd sure hate to have you, Miss Deane. But you don't need to be afraid of me."
"I'm not," said Clancy.
Spofford's nod was the acme of appreciation of a remark that held no particular humor, so far as Clancy could see. He slipped a trifle further back in the chair. He crossed his legs, assisting one fat knee with his hands. He leaned back. From his upper waistcoat pocket he took a cigar.
"You wouldn't mind, would you, Miss Deane? I can talk easier."
The downward and inward jerk of Clancy's chin gave him consent. From his lower waistcoat pocket, attached to the same heavy chain that Clancy assumed secured his watch, Spofford produced a cigar-clipper. Deliberately he clipped the end from the cigar, lighted it, tilted it upward from one corner of his mouth, and leaned toward Clancy.
"Miss Deane, you gotta right to point the door to me; I know it. But—you'd like to know who killed this Beiner guy, wouldn't you? Bein' sort of mixed up in it—bein' involved, so to speak——" His voice died away questioningly.