He sank softly into the chair towards which I had pointed. For a moment he sat and blinked at me behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.
"So our friend," he murmured, "has passed away! It is very sad—very sad indeed."
I leaned back in my chair and regarded him steadfastly.
"Mr. Stanley," I said, "you did not come here to express your sympathy with the man whom you have done your best, if not to kill, at least to frighten to death. Ask me all the questions you want to—say anything you think necessary. Only finish it up. When you leave this room, let me feel that circumstances will not require any further meeting between us."
My words seemed to afford Mr. Stanley matter for thought. His brows were slightly puckered. I knew that from behind his glasses I was being subjected to a very keen examination.
"I only trust, Mr. Courage,"' he said softly, "that the wish you have expressed may become a possibility. I myself have always regretted your intervention in this affair. You are, if you will forgive my saying so, in strange waters."
"I don't know about that," I answered curtly. "I don't see now how I could have done other than I have done. But anyhow, I'm sick of it. I don't want to seem discourteous, but if you could manage to say to me, in the course of a quarter of an hour, all that you have to say, and ask all the questions you want to, I should be glad to have done with the whole business, once and for all!"
My visitor nodded thoughtfully.
"Very good, Mr. Courage," he said. "I will endeavor to imitate your frankness. Is there to be a post-mortem?"
"There is not," I answered. "Dr. Rust does not consider it necessary, and I am forced to confess that I cannot see anything to be gained by it. You and your friends may have been responsible for his death. I cannot say! At any rate, I am sure that we should never be able to fix the guilt in the proper quarter."