“I want you to cast your mind back to the night when Mrs. Silverdale came by her death. I asked you once before what you were doing that night, but you put me off. I think you'd find it more advisable to be frank, now that I'm putting the question again.”
Silverdale's face showed some conflict of emotions, and he evidently considered the matter for almost a minute before answering.
“I've nothing further to add,” he said at last.
“I'll put it plainly, so that there can be no mistake,” Flamborough emphasised. “Can you give us any account of your movements on the night that your maid was murdered at Heatherfield?”
Silverdale tightened his lips and shook his head.
“I've no information to give you,” he said at length.
“I may as well tell you, Dr. Silverdale,” said Flamborough warningly, “that we have a certain amount of information drawn from other sources. We may know more than you think. Wouldn't it be best to be frank with us?”
Silverdale shook his head definitely without making any vocal reply. Flamborough concealed his disappointment, though his face grew darker. He put his hand into his waistcoat pocket and drew out something.
“Do you recognise that, Dr. Silverdale?”
Silverdale examined it.