“Just about that,” and Moore grinned, sheepishly. “I’m terribly fond of detective stories.”
“Yes, so you’ve said. Well, your book is called, I believe, ‘Murder Will Out,’ so, as that’s pretty true, you might as well own up first as last.”
“Own up to what?”
“That you killed Sir Binney! Where’s the knife? What did you do it for? Don’t you know you’ll be arrested, tried, convicted and sentenced? Yes—sentenced!”
Corson’s habit of flinging out rapid-fire questions took on new terror from the fierce frown with which he accompanied his speech, and Bob Moore’s knees trembled beneath him.
“W—what are you talking about? I—I didn’t k—kill him!”
“Yes, you did! You got all wrought up over those fool story books of yours and you went bug, and killed him in a frenzy of imagination!”
“Oh, oh! I didn’t—I,——”
“Then explain your movements! You came down from your talk with Vail, full of murder thoughts. You saw Binney come in, and, moved by the opportunity and obsessed with the murder game, you let drive and killed him, in a sort of mania!”
“Oh, no! no!” and Moore fell limply into a seat and began to sob wildly.