“It sounded more real than hypothesis,” said Michael, “but I won’t press the question.”
In truth, crimes of this character bored Michael Brixan; and, but for the unusual and curious circumstances of the Head-Hunter’s villainies, he would have dropped the case almost as soon as he came on to it.
There was yet another attraction, which he did not name, even to himself. As for Sir Gregory Penne, the grossness of the man and his hobbies, the sordid vulgarity of his amours, were more than a little sickening. He would gladly have cut Sir Gregory out of life, only—he was not yet sure.
“It is very curious how these questions crop up,” Penne was saying, as he came out of his reverie. “A chap like myself, who doesn’t have much to occupy his mind, gets on an abstract problem of that kind and never leaves it. So she’d be an accessory after the fact, would she? That would mean penal servitude.”
He seemed to derive a great deal of satisfaction from this thought, and was almost amiable by the time Michael parted from him, after an examination of the broken handcuffs. They were British and of an old pattern.
“Is Bhag hurt very much?” asked Michael as he put them down.
“Not very much; he’s got a cut or two,” said the other calmly. He made no attempt to disguise the happenings of that night. “He came to my assistance, poor brute! This fellow nearly got him. In fact, poor old Bhag was knocked out, but went after them like a brick.”
“What hat was that man wearing—the brown man?”
“Keji? I don’t know. I suppose he wore a hat, but I didn’t notice it. Why?”
“I was merely asking,” said Michael carelessly. “Perhaps he lost it in the caves.”