“Stop that!” Corson ordered. “I’ve got to find out about this. I believe you did it,—I believe I’ve struck the truth, for the simple reason that there’s no other suspect. This man Binney had no enemies. Why, he’s a peaceable Englishman, in trade,—and a big trade. I know all about him. He wanted to place his Bun business over here. He’d confabbed with several Bakery men in this city, and was about to make a deal. He was on good terms with his people here,—sort of relatives, they are,—and he was a gay old boy in his social tastes. Now, who’s going to stick up a man like that? There was no robbery,—his watch and kale were all right there. So there’s no way to look, but toward you! You!” A pointed forefinger emphasized Corson’s words and Moore broke into fresh sobs.
“I tell you I didn’t! Why, it’s too absurd—too——”
“Not absurd at all. I know something of psychology, and I know how those murder yarns, read late at nights,—when you’re here alone, get into your blood, and—well, it’s a wonder you didn’t stick Vail! But I suppose his indulgent listening to your ravings helped along your murder instinct, and you——”
“Oh, hush! If you keep on you’ll make me think I did do it!”
“Of course,—you can’t think anything else. Now, here’s another thing. You say you went up for Dr Pagett at twenty past two.”
“Or a few minutes later.”
“Well, Pagett said,—I asked him privately,—that it was at least quarter to three! What were you doing all that time?”
“It wasn’t—I didn’t—oh, Mr Corson, I told you the truth. I waited to catch the last words of——”
“Yes, of your own victim! And then, frightened, you hung around twenty minutes or so before calling the doctor.”
“I did not! But,” and Moore pulled himself together, “I’m not going to say another word! You’ve doped out this cock-and-bull story because you don’t know which way to look for the real murderer. And you think you can work a third degree on me—and railroad me to the chair, do you? Well, you can’t do it!”