That afternoon the sheriff and the prosecuting attorney stopped electioneering long enough to pay a hasty visit to Rumley. They found Oliver waiting for them at his home.
“Of course, Mr. Baxter,” said the prosecutor, “you have a right to refuse to answer every question I put to you. So far as I am concerned, I merely intend to examine you as I would examine any disinterested witness. As I say, you may decline to answer.”
“I will answer any question you may choose to put to me, Mr. Johnson.”
The sheriff interposed. “Better have your lawyer here, Baxter. I am obliged to warn you that anything you say may be used against you in case—er—in case—”
“I understand. In case I am charged with crime.”
“Exactly,” said the sheriff.
“You can refuse to answer on the ground that it may tend to incriminate you,” explained the prosecutor.
“I have consulted a lawyer,” said Oliver. “He advises me to help you in every way possible, Mr. Johnson. He wanted to be here this afternoon, but I told him I knew of no surer way to incriminate myself than to hire a lawyer to see that I didn’t. Go ahead; ask all the questions you like. No one wants to see this mystery cleared up more than I do.”
Half an hour later, the sheriff looked at his watch and reminded his companion that they would be late for the meeting at Monrovia if they didn’t start at once—and off they sped in haste. Detective Malone and his partner, who had joined the county officials at the Baxter house, remained behind. They were smoking Oliver’s cigars.
“How long do you figure it will take you, Mr. Malone, to finish up the job?” inquired the young man.