“Don't get nervous,” he said contemptuously. “There'll be no shooting. This isn't a film, you know.”
He reached up to the mantelpiece for his pipe, charged it deliberately, lighted it, and then turned to Sir Clinton.
“You've got a warrant for my arrest, I suppose?” he asked in a tone which sounded almost indifferent.
Sir Clinton's affirmative reply did not seem to disturb him. He settled himself comfortably in his chair and appeared interested chiefly in getting his pipe to burn well.
“I'll speak slowly,” he said at last, turning to the Inspector. “If I go too fast, just let me know.”
Flamborough nodded and sat, pen in hand, waiting for the opening of the narrative.
Chapter XVIII.
The Connecting Thread
“I don't see how you did it,” Markfield began, “but you got to the root of things when you traced a connection between me and Yvonne Silverdale. I'd never expected that. And considering how we'd kept our affairs quiet for years, I thought I'd be safe at the end of it all.
“It was in 1925, as you said, that the thing began—just after Silverdale came to the Croft-Thornton. There was a sort of amateur dramatic show afoot then, and both Yvonne and I joined it. That brought us together first. The rest didn't take long. I suppose it was a case of the attraction of opposites. One can't explain that sort of thing on any rational basis. It just happened.”
He hesitated for a moment, as though casting his mind back to these earlier times; then he continued: