Yet even the preoccupied novelist had to listen and nod, and then listen again, before replying.
"He can," said Langholm at length. "But why was it that they took such pains to keep his name out of the case?"
"They didn't. It would have done no good to drag him in. The poor devil was at death's door at the time of the murder."
"But is that a fact?"
Venn opened his eyes.
"Supposing," continued Langholm, speaking the thing that was not in his mind with the deplorable facility of the professional story-teller—"supposing that illness had been a sham, and they had really meant to elope under cover of it!"
"Well, it wasn't."
"I dare say not. But how do you know? They ought to have put him in the box and had his evidence."
"He was still too ill to be called," rejoined Venn. "But I'll take you at your word, dear boy, and tell you exactly how I do know all about his illness. You see that dark chap with the cigar, who's just come in to listen? That's Severino's doctor; it was he who put him up here; and I'll introduce you to him, if you like, after dinner."
"Thank you," said Langholm, after some little hesitation; "as a matter of fact, I should like it very much. Venn," he added, leaning right across the little table, "I know the woman well! I believe in her absolutely, on every point, and I mean to make her neighbors and mine do the same. That is my object—don't give it away!"