"And he?"
"Just like Mobley and myself, he appeared to be overcome by the shocking occurrence."
The Chief of Police plainly showed his perplexity. "According to your statement—the man who was killed—will you repeat his name?"
"De Sanchez. General Westbrook's friend, Alberto de Sanchez."
"According to your statement he was bleeding profusely. Had the weapon been withdrawn from the wound?"
The young man evinced unaccountable hesitancy. He moved uneasily, and glanced from his questioner to the impassive figure standing at a corner of the desk. This man, called Converse, had taken no part in the talk; he stood silent and motionless, seemingly paying no heed to what was going forward; but now he shot a swift glance at Lynden, whose nervousness measurably increased. That look was remarkable in a way: the eyes, steely gray, were in themselves without expression; they failed, however, to veil an intentness and concentration of mind which disclosed beyond a doubt that their owner was abnormally alive to every detail of speech and manner; they could not hide a power of will lying behind their quick regard, which mocked deception, and Mr. Lynden shuddered. Instantly the brief glance was withdrawn; but the young man, if such had been his intention, attempted no liberties with the truth. The confusion with which he now spoke, however, suggested strongly that the thought had entered his mind, although he may not have entertained it there.
"I—I—I would rather that you, or some officer, accompany me to Mobley's office," he faltered. "I consider it rather unfair, in my condition, to press me further. I wouldn't for the world present anything in a false light. I feel that the situation is not only serious, but extremely delicate."
"It is that," the Chief agreed, emphatically. "For that very reason you must tell all you know. Now, why should you hesitate in regard to the weapon? Come now, what about it?"
"Well, sir, I answer you under protest; remember, I did not see the blow struck."
"Sure?"