“All that's of importance,” Sir Clinton admitted. “Of course, in the guise of our friend Mr. Justice, you did your best to throw suspicion on Silverdale. That's a minor point, so far as you're concerned now. It's curious how you murderers can't leave well alone. If you hadn't played the fool there, you'd have given us ever so much more trouble.”
Markfield made no answer at the moment. He seemed to be reviewing the whole situation in his mind, thinking hard before he broke the silence.
“Good thing, a scientific training,” he said at length, rather unexpectedly. “It teaches one to realise the bearing of plain facts. My game seems to be up. You've been too smart for me.”
He paused, and a grim smile crossed his face, as though he found something humorous in the situation.
“You seem to have enough stuff there to pitch a tale to a jury,” he continued, “and I daresay you've more in reserve. I'm not inclined to be dragged squalling to the gallows—too undignified for my taste. I'll tell you the facts.”
Flamborough, eager that things should be done in proper form, interposed the usual official cautionary statement.
“That's all right,” Markfield answered carelessly. “You'll find paper over yonder on my desk, beside the typewriter. You can take down what I say, and I'll sign it afterwards if you think that necessary when I've finished.”
The Inspector crossed the room, picked up a number of sheets of typewriting paper, and returned to the table. He pulled out his fountain-pen and prepared to take notes.
“Mind if I light my pipe?” Markfield inquired.
As the chemist put his hand to his pocket, Flamborough half-rose from his seat; but he sank back again into his chair when a tobacco-pouch appeared instead of the pistol which he had been afraid might be produced. Markfield threw him a glance which showed he had fathomed the meaning of the Inspector's start.