Lansdale acknowledged defeat, extending his hands in mock desperation. "Put the thumbikins on if you must," he said, "but don't screw them down too hard. I couldn't tell anything but the truth if I should try."
"What have you done with Dick?"
"I have murdered him, as you suggested, and put his remains in a trunk and shipped them East."
Miss Van Vetter looked horrified, but whether at his flippancy or at the hideous possibility, Lansdale could not determine.
"But, really," Connie persisted, with a look in her eyes which would have exorcised any demon of brazenness; "you dined with him, you know."
"So I did; but he had to go back to his mine on the night train. I saw him off, and he made me promise to come here and—and"—
"Square it?" Connie suggested.
"That is precisely the word,—his word. And you will both bear me witness that I have done it, won't you?"
Miss Van Vetter was cutting the leaves of a magazine, and she looked up to say: "That is one of the explanations which doesn't explain, isn't it?"