"Did you think that, judge?" the detective persisted.
The judge hesitated.
"It's a point I've never gone into," he said finally, with intentional sarcasm.
Hastings snapped his knife-blade shut and thrust the piece of wood into his pocket.
"Let's get away from this beating about the bush," he suggested, voice on a sterner note. "I don't want to irritate you unnecessarily, judge. I came here for information—stuff I'm more than anxious to get. And I go back to that now: won't you tell me anything more about the discovery of the woman's body by the two of you—you and Webster?"
"No; I won't! I've covered the whole thing—several times."
"Is there anything that you haven't told—anything you've decided to suppress?"
Wilton got up from his chair and struck the desk with his fist.
"See here, Hastings! You're getting beside yourself. Representing Miss Sloane doesn't warrant your insulting her friends. Suppose we consider this interview at an end. Some other time, perhaps——"