The detective watched him closely.
“Well, yes, you’ve said it often enough; but how much longer do you mean to stick to it?” and he leaned forward with sudden earnestness.
Faradeane remained silent.
“Look here, sir,” continued McAndrew, quietly but impressively. “I’ve no business sitting here talking to you. I’ve got the case in hand, and it’s my duty to prove you guilty, if you are guilty. But I’m not so sure that you are. It’s right out of the ordinary track, this business, and I come to you, knowing you to be a gentleman, and I say, ‘Here’s a hard-working man trying to earn his living honestly; will you help him?’ That sounds strange to you, I dare say, sir, but it’s my fancy to lay all my cards on the table, and I’ll tell you”—he spread his palms out as if they really held cards—“I tell you, sir, that I’ve got enough evidence already to——”
He did not utter the dreadful word, but the pause supplied it.
Faradeane looked down at him with pale, calm face.
“Now, most men would be satisfied with that,” continued Mr. McAndrew, “but I’m not. I don’t want you to give me any information that shall go further toward convicting you. No, I could get that for myself, but I want you to tell me,” he rose and stretched out one forefinger, “who did this murder?”
It was a strange and startling speech, and another man would have been thrown off his guard and committed himself; but Faradeane had steeled himself for all ordeals.
“Be content,” he said, gravely, almost solemnly. “You have your evidence; act upon it, and do your duty, sir!”
Mr. McAndrew reached for his hat at once.