Courtney began this sentence with a rush, and checked himself. Two pairs of eyes fastened on him.
"Yes, sir?" Masters prompted blandly. "You were saying?"
He tried to cough up a laugh.
"I was going to say, it certainly wasn't Frank Sharpless, of all people. The idea of him poisoning Mrs. Fane is so fantastic that you hardly need to consider it."
Masters was noncommittal.
"Just so. Evidently. And if that young gentleman isn't careful, he's going to be asked to resign his commission. Still, evidence is evidence."
"And what is more," said Courtney, "it doesn't lessen the troubles you're already in. You've already proved conclusively that nobody could have exchanged the daggers on Wednesday night. If you now prove that nobody could have poisoned the grapefruit on Thursday afternoon, you will be in the soup for fair."
He had meant nothing by this. But Masters' color, from being ruddy, threatened to turn purple. Masters had been compelled to cork himself down for so long that the bare suggestion of this possibility was almost enough to finish him.
Snapping a rubber band round his notebook, he drew a deep breath and got up. He began to walk up and down under the lines of old weapons, which he regarded lovingly as though they expressed his mood.
"Now see here," he began firmly. "I'm done with flum-diddling and funny business—"