He stepped back a pace to the door, and opened it. "All right, Inspector."
"Do you think I fear you?" Glass said, standing up. "You are puny men, both. I could slay you as I slew the others. I will not do it, for I have no quarrel with you, but set no handcuffs about my wrists! I will be free."
A couple of men who had come in at Hannasyde's call took him firmly by the arms. "You come along quiet, Glass," said Sergeant Cross gruffly. "Take it easy now!"
Sergeant Hemingway watched Glass go out between the two policemen, heard him begin to declaim from the Old Testament in a fanatical sing-song, and mopped his brow with his handkerchief, bereft for once of all power of speech.
"Mad," Hannasyde said briefly. "I thought he was verging on it."
The Sergeant found his voice. "Mad? A raving homicidal lunatic, and I've been trotting around with him as trusting as you please! My God, it gave me gooseflesh just to sit there listening to him telling his story!"
"Poor devil!"
"Well, that's one way of looking at it," said the Sergeant. "What about the late Ernest and Charlie Carpenter? Seems to me they got a pretty raw deal. And all for what? Just because a silly bit of fluff who was no better than she should be ran off with one of them, and was fool enough to kill herself because of the other! I don't see what you've got to pity Ichabod for. All that'll happen to him is that he'll be sent to Broadmoor, an expense to everybody, and have a high old time preaching death and destruction to the other loonies."
"And you call yourself a psychologist!" said Hannasyde.
"I call myself a flatfoot with a sense of justice, Super," replied the Sergeant firmly. "When I think of the trouble we've been put to, and that maniac ticking us off right and left for being ungodly - well, I daren't let myself think of it for fear I'll go and burst a blood-vessel. What was it first put you on to it?"