“No, I don't.”
The Sergeant stopped short. “You don't?” he repeated. “What about that line of talk he put over about giving away all his uncle's money?”
“He didn't say anything about that to me,” said Hannasyde, with what his subordinate could only feel to be wooden placidity.
“He seems to have said it to the girl all right,” the Sergeant pointed out, once more falling into step beside him.
“That's a very different matter.”
“It is, is it?” said the Sergeant. “I'm bound to say I don't see it myself, not immediately.”
“Ah, Skipper, that's where psychology comes in!” said Hannasyde maliciously. “Randall Matthews wasn't pleased with Miss Stella for blurting that out.”
The Sergeant eyed him sideways, and with a good deal of expression, but all he said was: “Well, bearing his antics in mind, and assuming that he didn't put that murder over, what is his little game, Super?”
“I suspect,” said Hannasyde, “to prevent us from ever finding out the truth.”
“Chief,” said the Sergeant severely, “you've got something up your sleeve!”