"Motoring," observed Mr. Larkin, mildly interested, "did he motor in the evening?"
"Not usually—but I don't know if you remember that night. After a heavy rain it cleared and the moon came out as bright as day."
Mr. Larkin didn't remember himself but he had a vague recollection of having read it in some of the papers.
"It was a wonderful night, and if it hadn't been I'd never have kept my date. For I got side-tracked—had to fetch the doctor for my landlady's little girl who was taken bad with the croup. And what with that and the long distance I'd have given it up if it hadn't been for the moon."
The detective did not find these details particularly pertinent, and edged nearer to vital matters:
"Pretty unpleasant position for those two men, Dixon and Isaac. I was in Berkeley before I came here and there was a lot of talk."
The valet looked at him with sharp surprise:
"But no suspicion rests on them, I'll be bound. I lived in that house since last October and I'll swear that there's not an honester pair in the whole country."
Mr. Larkin, as a stranger to the parties, had no need to display a corresponding warmth, merely remarking that Berkeley was convinced of their innocence.
The young man appeased, felt in his coat for a pipe and drew a tobacco pouch from his pocket. As he filled the bowl, his profile was presented to the detective's vigilant eye, which dwelt thoughtfully on the neat outline, almost handsome except that the chin receded slightly. A good looking fellow, Mr. Larkin thought, and smart—somehow as the conversation had progressed he was beginning to think him smarter than he had at the start.