The cold blue eyes flashed. "I am full of the fury of the Lord," announced Glass. "I am weary of holding-in!"
"I haven't noticed you doing much holding-in so far, my lad. You go and spout your recitations somewhere else. If I have to see much more of you I'll end up a downright atheist."
"I will not go. I have communed with my own soul.
There is a way which seemeth right to a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death."
The Sergeant turned over a page of his typescript. "Well, there's no need to get worked up about it," he said. "If you take sin as hard as all that, you'll never do for a policeman. And if you're going to stay here, for goodness' sake sit down, and don't stand there staring at me!"
Glass moved to a chair, but still kept his stern gaze upon the Sergeant's face. "What said Neville Fletcher?" he asked.
"He talked me nearly as silly as you do."
"He is not the man."
"Well, if he isn't he may have a bit of a job proving it, that's all I can say," retorted the Sergeant. "Hat or no hat, he was in London the night Carpenter was done in, and he was the only one of the whole boiling who had motive and opportunity to kill the late Ernest. I grant you, he isn't the sort you'd expect to go around murdering people, but you've got to remember he's no fool, and is very likely taking us all in. I don't know whether he did in Carpenter, but the more I look at the evidence, the more I'm convinced he's the one man who could have done his uncle in."
"Yet he is not arrested."