"It can't be an amateur. The thing's too perfect. It can't be. But it's got to be, unless they tell me differently. And if he isn't, it must be a high stake."
Rampole somewhat irritably asked what he was talking about.
"I was talking," the doctor replied, "about a visit to London."
With an effort he hoisted himself to his feet on the two canes; he stood fiery and lowering, blinking about the room behind his glasses. Then he shook one stick at the walls like a schoolmaster.
"Your secret's out," he rumbled. "You can't scare anybody now."
"There's still a murderer," Rampole said.
"Yes. And, Miss Starberth, it's your father who has kept him here. Your father left that note in the vault, as I explained to you the other day. The murderer thinks he's safe. He has waited nearly three years to get that condemning paper back. Well, he isn't safe."
"You know who it is?"
"Come along," said the doctor, brusquely. "We've got to get home. I need a cup of tea or a bottle of beer, preferably the latter. And my wife will be returning from Mrs. Payne's before long… "
"Look here, sir," Rampole persisted; "do you know who the murderer is?"