He seized the lieutenant’s hand; and, pressing it almost painfully, he went on,—
“Yes, I am ready to take my oath that this wretch is the vile tool of people who hate or fear Daniel Champcey; who are deeply interested in his death; and who, being too cowardly to do their own business, are rich enough to hire an assassin.”
The lieutenant was evidently unable to follow.
“Still, doctor,” he objected, “but just now you insisted”—
“Upon a diametrically opposite doctrine; eh?”
“Precisely.”
The old surgeon smiled, and said,—
“I had my reasons. The more I am persuaded that this man is an assassin, the less I am disposed to proclaim it on the housetops. He has accomplices, you think, do you?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, if we wish to reach them, we must by all means reassure them, leave them under the impression that everybody thinks it was an accident. If they are frightened, good-night. They will vanish before you can put out your hand to seize them.”