"I've just been asking Mr. Sloane that," Hastings said, in a tone that made Wilton look swiftly at his friend's face.
"I told Arthur this morning," he said, "how lucky he was that you'd promised Lucille to go into this thing."
"Apparently," Hastings retorted drily, "he's unconvinced of the extent of his good fortune."
Mr. Sloane, quivering from head to foot, mourned softly: "Unfathomable fate!"
Wilton, his rugged features softening to frank amusement, stared a moment in silence at Sloane's thin face, at the deeply lined forehead topped by stringy grey hair.
"See here, Arthur," he protested, nodding Hastings an invitation to remain; "you know as much about crime as Hastings and I. If you've thought about this murder at all, you must see what it is. If Russell isn't guilty—if he's not the man, that crime was committed shrewdly, with forethought. And it was a devilish thing—devilish!"
"Well, what of it?" Sloane protested shrilly, not opening his eyes.
"Take my advice. Quit antagonizing Mr. Hastings. Be thankful that he's here, that he's promised to run down the guilty man."
Mr. Sloane turned his face to the wall.