“No, that’s true,” smiled Varna slyly. “But Gyuri was afraid I might do it, for he isn’t always strong enough to frighten me with his eyes. Those were the hours when I could make him afraid—I liked those hours—”
“What did you do when you were out alone at night?”
“I just walked about. I set fire to a tree in the woods once, then the rain came and put it out. Once I killed a dog and another time I cut through the bridge supports. That took me several hours to do and made me very tired. But it was such fun to know that people would be worrying and fussing about who did it.”
Varna rubbed his hands gleefully. He did not look the least bit malicious but only very much amused. The doctor groaned. Gyuri’s great body trembled, his arms shook, but he did not make a single voluntary movement. He saw the revolver in Muller’s hand and felt the keen grey eyes resting on him in pitiless calm.
“And now tell us about the pastor?” said the detective in a firm clear voice.
“Oh, he was a dear, good gentleman,” said No. 302 with an expression of pitying sorrow on his face. “I owed him much gratitude; that’s why I put the roses in his hand.”
“Yes, but you murdered him first.”
“Of course, Gyuri told me to.”
“And why?”
“He hated the pastor, for the old gentleman had no confidence in him.”