Sharpless shook his head.
"You know, sir," Sharpless remarked, "you really are an old son of a so-and-so, and no mistake." H.M. drew himself up.
"I'm the old maestro," he said, tapping his own chest; "and don't let any would-be criminal ever forget it.
"So I sort of wondered whether anybody might 'a' tried that dodge. Hubert Fane was a friendly soul who got on good terms with everybody.
"It might be interesting to do a bit of snoopin', and find out what chemists encouraged loiterin'. I had to have prescriptions filled, of course. I couldn't ask any questions, or the chemist would have shut up like an oyster. The police could do the questioning when I'd weeded out my list of possibles.
"But stop side-trackin' me! I was goin' on about Hubert Fane.
"His original plan, I think, was a straight-out murder with strychnine. But two things happened. First: he ran into his old friend Richard Rich. And, second: Mrs. Fane came in and tackled him about the murder of Potty Allen.
"Now this last thing put him in one awful awkward position. When she asked him if Arthur had killed the girl, he couldn't say: 'No; I did it myself.' And he couldn't deny the whole thing altogether, or she'd only investigate further and then there might be the devil to pay.
"So he shut her up by agreein' with what she thought, supplying such extra details as his fancy thought up, and pretendin' to be the harmless blackmailer she believed he was. The dear old gentleman again.
H.M. pointed a raw-burning cigar at Vicky, and raised his eyebrows.