Puffing out his breath, Rich looked down at his shirt-front, slapped the hands on his knees, and added abruptly:
"Successful? Do I look it?"
There was a silence.
H.M., scowling, turned round and lumbered to the windows at the end of the room. Outside, the rose-garden was silvered with moonlight. H.M. stared at it.
Philip Courtney could not help feeling a strong liking for the downcast, stocky little man in the chair. Everything Rich said had the ring of sincerity. You felt that he was, essentially, of a sincere and rather simple nature.
He had not mentioned certain facts which he had heard Vicky tell when she was under hypnosis. He had not passed on this information to the police — at least, not yet. But then neither had Courtney himself. And it was possible that Rich kept back this information out of ordinary decency.
H.M. swung round.
"As a matter of fact, d'ye see," H.M. told Rich, "what you've said really clears up the points I was goin' to ask about. I mean your credentials."
"I can produce what were my credentials. There was no fraud about my show, if that's what you mean."
"No," agreed H.M. "I don't think there was." The corners of his mouth drew down. "Who did you say insisted on your tryin' this 'experiment'?"