“Beautiful!” she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at her again. “Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!—what did you think about—about what has just happened?”
Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally ornamented with butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy hair. Then he ate more tea-cake and gulped more tea.
“Look here!” he said suddenly. “I’m no great hand at talking. I can write pretty decently when I’ve a good story to tell, but I don’t talk an awful lot, because I never can express what I mean unless I’ve got a pen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I think. When I write my article this evening, I’ll get all these things marshalled in proper form, and I shall write clearly about ’em. But I’ll tell you one thing I do think—I wish your father had made a clean breast of things to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had told everything when he first went into that box.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because he’s now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion around himself. People’ll think—Heaven knows what they’ll think! They already know that he knows more about Marbury than he’ll tell, that—”
“But does he?” she interrupted quickly. “Do you think he does?”
“Yes!” replied Spargo, with emphasis. “I do. A lot more! If he had only been explicit at first—however, he wasn’t. Now it’s done. As things stand—look here, does it strike you that your father is in a very serious position?”
“Serious?” she exclaimed.
“Dangerous! Here’s the fact—he’s admitted that he took Marbury to his rooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next morning Marbury’s found robbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards off!”
“Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him for the sake of robbing him of whatever he had on him?” she laughed scornfully. “My father is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo.”