Alan was much surprised to hear that Sorley had been warned, and from a suspicious look in Dick’s eyes fancied that Latimer suspected him. “I did not break my promise,” he protested sharply and stiffly and unasked.
“No one suggested that you did,” growled the reporter, who was annoyed that the criminal—as he truly considered Sorley—had escaped.
“Your eyes suggest quite enough,” retorted Fuller, hurt by the suspicion, “and you should know me better, Dick, than to think that I broke faith.”
Latimer flushed. “I’m sorry, Alan, but I really did have some such thought, although I see now that it was unwarranted. But you had every temptation to save the man, seeing that he is Miss Inderwick’s uncle.”
“You should have known me better,” persisted Fuller stubbornly. “I gave my promise, and I kept it.”
“I am sure you did.” Latimer extended his hand. “Forgive me Alan.”
The other gripped it. “Of course. A vague suspicion such as you have entertained won’t spoil our friendship. And yet, Dick,” he added, when they had both cooled down, “I am not exactly surprised, now I think over Bakche’s last words.”
“Bakche, the Indian? Has he been to see you?”
“Yesterday. He came as a client, and confessed much of what we already know.”
“Then my sixth sense?——”