"My story is quite simple," Bruce replied. "Some little time ago I bought a picture by J. Halbin. I gave a few pounds for it. Early in the evening of the day preceding the corner house murder I had a visitor. He was an elderly Dutchman, who gave his name as Max Kronin. He had heard of my purchase, and wanted the picture for family reasons. He offered me £200 for it, and paid me in notes--the notes that are on the table there."
"Which identical notes must have been in the possession of the murdered man for many hours after you say they passed into your possession."
"Take it or leave it," Bruce said desperately. "It's like some horrid nightmare. From the time I received the notes from the elderly Dutchman till I parted with them to Capper they were never out of my possession."
"Of course, you know where the Dutchman is to be found?"
Bruce shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"He took the picture away," he said, "and I thought no more of the matter, he said something about going to Antwerp. In the face of the damning evidence you have piled up against me, my story sounds hysterical and foolish."
Prout was not so sure of that. He had seen too many startling developments in his time to be surprised at anything.
"Of course, it wants a bit of explaining away," he said. "Still, supposing for argument sake you were the thief, how could we possibly connect you with the corner house and the poor fellow who was murdered there?"
It had come at last. Bruce braced himself for the ordeal. Just for the moment there was a terrible temptation to hold his tongue. The story of his visit to the corner house was known to those only who would not dare to speak. Once he told the truth he realized that he was putting a noose around his neck.
And yet as an honourable man he was bound to speak, indeed he had already spoken, for Gilbert Lawrence had been made privy to part of the story.