"Can't we pretend he murdered my uncle?" begged Neville.
"No, Mr. Fletcher, we can not."
"Killed because he knew too much," said Sally, getting up, and beginning to walk up and down the room. "Yes, I see. Not Neville, though. Any weapon discovered?"
"No," said Hannasyde. "In both cases, the murderer contrived to conceal his weapon with - let us say - extraordinary ingenuity."
"Oh!" Sally threw him a somewhat scornful smile. "You think that points to Mr. Fletcher, do you? There's a difference, Superintendent, between ingenuity of mind and practical cleverness. Neville - practically speaking - is half-witted."
"I suppose I ought to be grateful," murmured Neville. "What was my weapon, by the way? You know, I don't want to upset the only theory left to you, but I doubt very much if I could nerve myself to commit an act of such repulsive violence - let alone two of them."
"Just a moment!" Sally intervened. "My sister's evidence now becomes of vital importance. I'd better go and see if she's fit enough to see you, Superintendent."
"I should be very grateful to you if you would," said Hannasyde.
"I will, but I don't suppose I shall be frightfully popular," said Sally, going to the door.
"Tell her a man's life is at stake," recommended Neville, swinging his legs over the window-sill, and stepping into the room. "That'll appeal to her morbid mind."