"Did he really carry a pistol?" he said gently, "let's see."
He leaned over the body.
"I wonder why he wanted the pistol pocket?" he went on casually, "any idea, Mr. Weldon?"
A tiny, fine chill tingled at Weldon's heels and flew up to his hair. He had a sudden flashing sense of being in a net that was softly tightening. In an agony of regret he wished that he had not that sheaf of "memoranda, etc." It was suddenly clear to him that he had stolen them.
"I have no idea, sir," his tongue answered stolidly.
"No, ... of course not," said Mr. Webb thoughtfully. "Well, gentlemen, I can't see the need for any more discussion. This is very deplorable—a great shock. He was very methodical and no doubt everything is in easy shape...."
They drew close to him and Weldon, though he caught the murmur of voices, distinguished nothing but the steady notes of the clock: one, two! one, two! His head nodded a trifle and for one blissful second his eyelids fell. The clock began to strike eleven. One! he struggled, but it was too sweet. Two! He became dimly conscious of a rustling and movement by him. Three! there was a light touch on his arm and Webb stood near the chair he had dropped into. The others must have gone.
"You seem exhausted, Mr. Weldon," he said quietly.
"I—I have missed my sleep lately," Weldon stammered, trying to control the motions of his mouth, his voice striking his own ear as mechanical, far away, laboured.
"Exactly," said Webb suavely. "And now, Mr. Weldon, how much do you expect for those papers?"