"That brings me to my point. You'll believe me when I tell you my only interest in this murder is to find the murderer, and, while I'm doing it, to save the Sloanes as much as possible from annoyance. You'll believe me, also, when I say I've got to have all the facts if I'm to work surely and fast. You recognize the force of that, don't you?"
"Why, yes, Hastings." Wilton spoke impatiently this time.
"Fine!" The old man shot him a genial glance over the steel-rimmed spectacles. "That's the introduction. Here's the real thing: I've an idea you could tell me more about what happened on the lawn Saturday night."
After his involuntary, immediate start of surprise, Wilton tilted his head, slowly blowing the cigar smoke from his pursed lips. He had a fine air of reflection, careful thought.
"I can elaborate what I've already told you," he said, finally, "if that's what you mean—go into greater detail."
He watched closely the edge of the detective's face unhidden by his bending over the wood he was cutting.
"I don't think elaboration could do much good," Hastings objected. "I referred to new stuff—some fact or facts you might have omitted, unconsciously."
"Unconsciously?" Wilton echoed the word, as a man does when his mind is overtaxed.
Hastings took it up.