"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what Ben Cameron looked like——"
"I've told you as near as I can remember," muttered McGuire.
"Had the murdered man, for instance, lost the little finger of his left hand?" asked Peter, coolly concealing the anxiety which lay behind his question.
But he had his reward, for McGuire shot a quick glance at him, his heavy jowl sagging. And as he didn't reply, Peter urged him triumphantly.
"You promised to help. Will you answer me truthfully? It will save asking a lot of questions."
At last McGuire threw up his hands.
"Yes," he muttered, "that was Ben Cameron. One of his little fingers was missing all right enough."
"Thanks," said Peter, with an air of closing the interview. "If you want this proof that the murdered man was Beth's father, ask Mrs. Bergen."
There was a silence. Peter had won. McGuire gathered up his hat with the mien of a broken man and moved toward the door.
"All right, Nichols. I guess there's no doubt of it. I'll admit the proof's strong enough. It can be further verified, I suppose, but I'd rather no questions were asked. You do your part and I—I'll do mine."