Fiercely he turned on Jones. "What were you saying, sir?"
Before Jones could reply, Verelst cut in. "The stiletto is his. He has the opera-ticket. He——"
"Imbeciles tell each other that great men think alike," Jones, interrupting, remarked at Dunwoodie. "I merely happened to be forestalling your views, when a recent decision occurred to me and——"
Jones' remarks were lost, drowned by others, by questions, exclamations, the drivel that amazement creates.
"But, I say——" "Tell me this——" "No evidence!" "The stiletto his!" "How did Lennox get it?" "Then what about——"
Dunwoodie, fastening on Jones, roared at him. "You tell me the instrument is yours?"
Jones patted his chin. "I did not, but I will."
"How do you know, sir?"
"It has a little love message on it."
"Hum! Ha!" Dunwoodie barked. "Come to my office to-morrow. Come before ten."