Masters did so. Courtney saw that the chief inspector was as bewildered as Ann or himself. Masters bent the dagger back and forth, as though to make sure of its being rubber and that it might not be transformed into steel under his eyes.
"We're comin' on. Now, Masters, go and sit in the chair where Arthur Fane was sitting."
Obediently Masters took the chair.
"You, son. Stand where Rich was standing."
Feeling as though he had got into a dreamlike state where anything could happen, Courtney shook his head.
"I don't know where Rich was standing. I wasn't here."
"The gal'll show you. Place him, my wench… So. That's it, hey?.. Good."
H.M. surveyed the position. He was infuriatingly slow about it.
"We'll omit the revolver," he went on, thrusting his hands into the armholes of his waistcoat. "The revolver didn't exactly figure in the scheme: except that, without it, the murderer could never have got away with the trick." He shook his head. "Oh, my eye, how simple it is! How painfully, heartbreakin'ly simple!"
Masters' color deepened. His fingers scratched at the upholstery of the chair-arms.