Glass compressed his lips, but said after a moment's inward struggle: "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. I will declare my iniquity, I will be sorry for my sin."
"All right," said the Sergeant, returning his notebook to his pocket. "We'll carry on from there."
A heavy sigh broke from Glass. "Mine iniquities have gone over my head; as an heavy burden they are too heavy for me," he said in a brooding tone.
"There's no need to take on about it," said the Sergeant, mollified. "It's just got to be a bad habit with you, which you ought to break yourself of. I'm sorry if I told you off a bit roughly. Forget it!"
"Open rebuke," said Glass with unabated gloom, "is better than secret love."
The Sergeant fought for words. As he could think of none that were not profane, and felt morally certain that Glass would, without hesitation, condemn those with Biblical aphorisms, he controlled himself, and strode on in fulminating silence.
Glass walked beside him, apparently unaware of having said anything to enrage him. As they turned into the road where the police station was situated, he said: "You found no weapon. I told you you would not."
"You're right," said the Sergeant. "I found no weapon, but I found out something you'd have found out two days ago if you'd had the brains of a louse."
"He that refraineth his lips is wise," remarked Glass. "What did I overlook?"
"Well, I don't know that it was any business of yours, strictly speaking," said the Sergeant, always fair-minded. "But the grandfather clock in the hall is a minute slow by the one in the late Ernest's study, which synchronised with your watch. What's more, I found out from Miss Fletcher that it's been like that for some time."