He closed his eyes, and there was a short silence. Then Trent got suddenly to his feet.
“Cross-examination?” enquired Marlowe, looking at him gravely.
“Not at all,” said Trent, stretching his long limbs. “Only stiffness of the legs. I don’t want to ask any questions. I believe what you have told us. I don’t believe it simply because I always liked your face, or because it saves awkwardness, which are the most usual reasons for believing a person, but because my vanity will have it that no man could lie to me steadily for an hour without my perceiving it. Your story is an extraordinary one; but Manderson was an extraordinary man, and so are you. You acted like a lunatic in doing what you did; but I quite agree with you that if you had acted like a sane man you wouldn’t have had the hundredth part of a dog’s chance with a judge and jury. One thing is beyond dispute on any reading of the affair: you are a man of courage.”
The colour rushed into Marlowe’s face, and he hesitated for words. Before he could speak Mr. Cupples arose with a dry cough.
“For my part,” he said, “I never supposed you guilty for a moment.” Marlowe turned to him in grateful amazement, Trent with an incredulous stare. “But,” pursued Mr. Cupples, holding up his hand, “there is one question which I should like to put.”
Marlowe bowed, saying nothing.
“Suppose,” said Mr. Cupples, “that some one else had been suspected of the crime and put upon trial. What would you have done?”
“I think my duty was clear. I should have gone with my story to the lawyers for the defence, and put myself in their hands.”
Trent laughed aloud. Now that the thing was over, his spirits were rapidly becoming ungovernable. “I can see their faces!” he said. “As a matter of fact, though, nobody else was ever in danger. There wasn’t a shred of evidence against any one. I looked up Murch at the Yard this morning, and he told me he had come round to Bunner’s view, that it was a case of revenge on the part of some American black-hand gang. So there’s the end of the Manderson case. Holy, suffering Moses! What an ass a man can make of himself when he thinks he’s being preternaturally clever!” He seized the bulky envelope from the table and stuffed it into the heart of the fire. “There’s for you, old friend! For want of you the world’s course will not fail. But look here! It’s getting late—nearly seven, and Cupples and I have an appointment at half-past. We must go. Mr. Marlowe, goodbye.” He looked into the other’s eyes. “I am a man who has worked hard to put a rope round your neck. Considering the circumstances, I don’t know whether you will blame me. Will you shake hands?”