"Do you mean to say it hasn't delayed your reports?"
"What if it has? I've had nothing to report—particularly."
"Yes, you have," snapped Wicks. "You know it was murder—that's something to report!"
Garrison studied the man deliberately for half a minute before replying. What a living embodiment of Durgin's description of Hiram Cleave he was! And what could he know of the facts in the case of Hardy's death that would warrant him in charging that the affair was known to be murder?
"Do I know it was murder?" he queried coldly. "Have I said so, Mr.
Wicks, to you, or to anyone else?"
Wicks glanced at him with a quick, roving dart from his eyes.
"You saw what was printed in the papers," he answered evasively. "You must have given it out."
"I gave out nothing," said Garrison, bent now on a new line of thought, and determined that he would not accuse young Durgin by name till driven to the last extremity. "But, as a matter of fact, I do know, Mr. Wicks, that Hardy was murdered."
"Then why the devil don't you report to that effect?" snapped Wicks.
"Are you trying to shield that young woman?"
Garrison knew whom he meant, but he asked: "What young woman?"