“Nobody has been here that is interested into anything you are interested into in the slightest form or manner,” Mr. Gubb assured him, and Alibaba Singh sighed with relief.
“You never knew Henry K. Lippett, did you?” he asked.
“Never at all,” said Mr. Gubb.
“He broke his neck,” said Alibaba Singh, “and it killed him.”
He hesitated and seemed lost in thought. He drew himself together sharply.
“It isn’t possible!” he exclaimed with irritation and with no connection with what he had just said. “I don’t believe it! I—I—”
His distress was great. He wrung one hand inside the other. He almost wept.
“Mr. Gubb,” he said, “since I was here I have been up to Mrs. Lippett’s house again, and it is worse than ever. It can’t be possible! I haven’t the power. I know I haven’t the power.”
“You’d ought to try to explain yourself more plain to your deteckative,” said Mr. Gubb.