Dead silence.
The light of battle sprang across that room as clearly as the opposing lamps had shone behind the fencers at Pentecost Prison last night. And Martin knew why.
Too often had John Stannard wiped the floor with the police, including Chief Inspectors of the C.I.D., in a battle of question-and-answer at the Central Criminal Court Masters knew this; Stannard knew he knew it They looked at each other.
Last night, Martin reflected, Stannard could have wiped the floor with Masters in such an engagement But Stannard was shaky now; there was some horror inside him; his eyes were dull; his movements, perhaps mental as well as physical, seemed slow. Then he glanced towards Ruth Callice.
To Martin's astonishment, Ruth was looking at Stannard with an expression of… well, not nearly as strong as hero-worship; but something deeply moved and as near to love as made no difference. What had been happening during the past twenty-four hours? Ruth veiled her look instantly, slipping back into H.M.'s chair.
And Stannard smiled.
"I'm at your service, Inspector," he said. And vitality seemed to flow and expand through him.
He sat down at the other end of the sofa from Martin, crossed his knees, and took from his pocket a cigar in a cellophane wrapper.
"I’ll make the statement" he went on, "mainly because," he looked sideways, "I think my friend Drake deserves to hear it."
'The trouble was," Martin blurted, "I thought I might have left you there helpless or dying or — God knows what."