“Never mind. P’r’aps I know something.”
“You know something?”
“P’r’aps so. You say you came here—late?”
“Yes, very late.”
“That night the doctor was struck down?”
“Yes; but why do you ask?”
“Because, you scoundrel, we’ve got the clue at last. You were the man!”
So sudden was the charge that Mark literally staggered back, and, weak from his illness, he gasped, and looked to a superficial observer as much like a guilty man as ever recoiled from a sudden denunciation. But as a wave of the advancing tide merely retires to gain fresh force, Mark Heath recovered himself.
“You scoundrel!” he cried; and he would have sprung at Poynter’s throat, but for the restraining arm of Janet and Hendon.
“Scoundrel yourself!” cried Poynter savagely. “Look at his face! Here—the police!”