“Able! I should say so. If our men hadn’t been here, Sandford would have been as good as hanged. Nobody could have believed his story. Why did he come here? There could be no evidence of Kimball’s telephone call. What did Sandford come for? There’s no reasonable reason. Kimball put him under a cloud, he was furious, he meant murder, and did it. The jury wouldn’t leave the box.”
“That’s right, sir,” said Superintendent Bell. “If it wasn’t for Mr. Fortune he’d be down and out. What you might call a rarity in our work, that is, to save a man from a charge of murder before it comes along.”
“How do you mean?” Reggie seemed to come back from other thoughts. “Oh, because I told you to have Kimball watched. Well, it was pretty clear he wasn’t the kind to go about without a chaperon. We took that trick. I suppose Kimball’s thinking, wherever he is, that we won the game. But I wouldn’t say that—I wouldn’t say that. Why did he hate Sandford?”
“My dear fellow, the man was mad.”
“You mean he didn’t like the way Sandford does his hair—or he thought Sandford was a German spy. No. He wasn’t that kind of mad. There’s something we don’t know, Lomas, old thing. I dare say it’s crazy enough. I’ll bet you my favourite shirt it’s something the ordinary sane man feels.”
“If we are to go looking for something crazy which sane men feel!” said Lomas.
“Speakin’ broadly, all the human emotions,” said Reggie. “Didn’t you ever hate a man because he married a girl who was pretty? Don’t be so godlike.”
“They weren’t either of them married, sir,” said Bell, in grave surprise.
“How do you know?” Reggie snapped. “No, I don’t suppose they were. But we don’t know. We don’t know anything. That’s why I say we haven’t won the game. Well, well. For God’s sake let’s have some food! There was a modest pub in the village. I saw it when you let off your futile scream at the traction-engine. Let’s go. I don’t seem to want to eat Kimball’s grub.”
Phase VI.—Jane Brown