“That may be; but even so it is necessary to establish that fact. You know, I suppose, that your walking-stick was found in Mr. Prinsep’s room the morning after the murder. I want you to tell me how it got there.”
“I dare say you say you found it there. I know that, if it was there, it was not I who put it there. I don’t believe it was there at all. I lost it last Tuesday afternoon.”
“And where did you lose it, may I ask?”
“If I knew that, my man, I should have been after it soon enough. I must have left it somewhere. Not that it’s any business of yours what I did with it.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Brooklyn. You will admit that the fact that it was found in Mr. Prinsep’s room calls for some explanation. If you do not know where you left it, I shall have to do my best to find out. May I ask where you went last Tuesday afternoon?”
“I don’t see why I should tell you.”
“I think, Mr. Brooklyn, that, unless you wish to find yourself in the dock on a criminal charge, you had far better do so.”
For a moment it seemed as if Walter Brooklyn would make a personal attack on the detective, or at least turn him then and there out of the room. But he seemed to think better of it. “Ask your questions,” he said.
“First, then, where did you call when you were out on Tuesday afternoon?”
“I went first to see Mr. Carter Woodman—I presume you know who he is—at his office in Lincoln’s Inn. Then I took a taxi to the Piccadilly Theatre, where I saw that young hound, Prinsep, and one or two others.”