Laverick shrugged his shoulders.
“Come,” he declared, “you must not go too far with this thing. I have admitted, so as to clear the way for anything you have to say, that Mr. Morrison would not care to have his name mentioned in connection with this affair. But because he left your bar a few minutes after the murdered man, it is sheer folly to assume that therefore he is necessarily implicated in his death. I cannot conceive anything more unlikely.”
The man smiled—a slow, uncomfortable smile which suggested mirth less than anything in the world.
“There are a few other things, sir,” he remarked,—“one in especial.”
“Well?” Laverick inquired. “Let’s have it. You had better tell me everything that is in your mind.”
“The man was stabbed with a horn-handled knife.”
“I remember reading that,” Laverick admitted.
“Well?”
“The knife was mine,” his visitor affirmed, dropping his voice once more to a whisper. “It lay on the edge of the counter, close to where Mr. Morrison was leaning, and as soon as he’d gone I missed it.”
Laverick was silent. What was there to be said?