"I refuse to read it," snapped Stone. "Refuse to read it? Here! Why?"
"Because it's an outrage," retorted Stone. He got up on his stubby legs with the paper held behind him and his arm crooked; from lack of sleep and the strain, he was a trifle pale. "Because it's an outrage, that's why. Because it practically accuses me"
"Of murder, son?"
"Eh? Oh, hell, no! You didn't think-?" Stone stopped. "No. But it practically says my story about L. being dead is a lie; that L. isn't dead; that L. committed these murders after all… "
"And what do you think yourself?" asked H.M. gently.
Tap, tap, tap on the polished skull, tap, tap, tap.
When Stone took off his pince-nez, it gave his eyes a bleary and caved-in expression, and showed the red mark across the bridge of his nose. He rubbed his eyes, and then replaced the glasses. He did. not look at his own slip of paper. But he went round the desk behind H.M., circled entirely around the desk, and stopped before Serpos's chair. His grimy white suit looked as dingy as the dawn that was coming through the windows, and as our own bedraggled appearances against it. But he stopped before Serpos's chair, and two clever men faced each other.
"I think that's your man," Stone said.
"Do you, now?" inquired Serpos, studying him.
"I wrote it down a while ago," Stone went on, "and, when this young fellow said a certain thing, I got a hunch that I knew was true. That was why I asked you if I could add something to my explanation; get me? I won't read it to you. I'll tell it to you.