"What a nerve that Michael must have. How does he carry it off?"
Durham shrugged his shoulders. "The poor chap is not in a condition to carry off anything," he said; "he's lying pretty well worn out in bed, and Payne says it will be a long time before he is himself. I think he is simply pleased to know he has been accepted as Bernard, and is glad to postpone an explanation in case he'll be turned out."
"There's no danger of that," said Dick. "My aunt wouldn't turn out a cat in that state, much less a human being."
"Oh, Miss Berengaria seems to have taken quite a fancy to the man. She declares there's pluck in him, and——"
"But seeing he is a criminal—a murderer——"
"We don't know that he is, Conniston, and this"—Durham laid his hand on the diary—"goes to prove his innocence."
"Bosh!" said Dick, jumping up. "I believe Mrs. Gilroy prepared that diary and left it out so that Miss Randolph would drop across it. If anyone killed Sir Simon it was Michael."
"Or Beryl."
"He was at the theatre."
"I know, but he managed to get the deed done by someone else. I really can't give an opinion yet, Conniston," said Durham resuming his seat, with a shrug; "to-morrow, when I see this Italian, I may learn something likely to throw light on the case. Meantime go back and tell Bernard I am working hard."