Leslie had understood the pantomime the moment Lanagan opened his pocketbook and disclosed the collection of hair. He knew what it was now that he had overlooked; and, chagrined but alert, he watched each move that Lanagan made, for the solution had not yet come. Was it to be Martin? Leslie hoped professionally, for the sake of his reputation, that it would be.
“Martin,” said Lanagan, flashing the word out like a dirk might flash in the sun, “what did Mrs. Hemingway ever do to earn your loyalty—even to death?”
Martin paled, visibly, even beneath the sick light of the weak incandescent.
“She has been very good to me, sir. She took me out of the court’s custody and gave me a good home and a good salary. She made a man of me when I might have become a jailbird. She has been a good mistress, sir.”
“Yes, a good mistress,” came through Lanagan’s teeth. “You’re loyal. The type of loyal retainer. You’re not the type that falls in love with the daughter of the house. You never loved Elvira; you never murdered Elvira; and you are concealing now the name of the murderer, telling a poor weak lie that could not have stood at the outside for twenty-four hours! Who killed Elvira?”
Lanagan had arisen and glowered above the ashen Martin. Leslie was leaning forward, his eyes, gimletlike, boring into Martin’s. Brady swung around, too, to face him, caught as well under the spell of fierce magnetism of the newspaper man.
“Tell me,” Lanagan snarled, “who was in that automobile with you last night?”
Martin’s heavy lips dropped apart while he continued to stare affrightedly upon the newspaper man.
“The mother of that girl found you in Elvira’s room with her, making preparations for flight with whoever was in that machine!
“I will tell you,” continued Lanagan, hammering each word home; “I will tell you who killed Elvira Hemingway!” He leaned swiftly across the table, bending down and breathing a word into the ear of Martin. The effect was electrical.