“I asked Chat if he knew, and he winked and said they had found proofs enough to hang the fellow who did the job.”
“What kind of proof?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He said the chap must have cut himself, for there was blood on the floor.”
Don wondered if his visitor had observed his bandaged fingers; but, if so, Leon made no sign.
The doctor’s son walked to the window and looked out. Having opened the window, he turned back, and there seemed to be a look of triumph on his dark face.
“Bentley,” he said, “have you a suspicion who did that job?”
“Well, I’ve got a sneaking notion,” answered Leon, with a foxy smile, as he lighted a fresh cigarette.
“Whom do you suspect?”
“I questioned Chatterton pretty closely,” declared Bentley, wagging his head, “and I found out another fellow left the club-room directly after I did. It is my opinion that he’s none too good to do such a trick, and I’ll bet they’ll find it out.”
“Whom do you mean?”