Our prisoner flashed a glance full of menace at him, malice and spite flickering over his face unmistakably.
“Wot am I charged with?” he grunted. “Let’s hear it again.”
“The theft of Lady Considine’s pearls,” rapped Baddeley.
“Oh! Not cradle-snatching or boot-legging ... nothing fancy-like?”
“And unless you’re very careful,” went on the Inspector, “you may find yourself called upon to face an even more serious charge than robbery.”
Webb whitened, even under his normal pallor. “What might that be?” he muttered.
“The murder of Mr. Gerald Prescott, at Considine Manor,” replied Baddeley with studied deliberation.
“I know nothink about that, guvnor, nothink at all. S’elp me God, I don’t.”
“You knew of the murder then?” snapped Baddeley. “You aren’t surprised?”
“I can read, can’t I?” jeered Webb. “I ain’t exactly a savage!”