"And now I'll leave you to talk things over," said Mr. Ellison, plainly anxious to get away. "When I'm wanted, you know where to call on me, Mr. Hilton." And he hurried away.
"That's what I wanted," I said, cheerfully. I could see that the boy was in so nervous a condition that the first necessity was to steady him. "We want to talk this over together. You know, of course, that anything and everything that you tell me is in professional confidence, and that you should not hesitate to be perfectly frank."
"I have nothing to hide," he said. "If you will tell me what you want to know,--"
"When did the idea of killing Barker come to you?" I asked, watching him closely.
An involuntary shudder ran through him at my words, but he answered at once and with apparent frankness. "I don't know. I don't remember thinking of it at all. Beforehand, I mean."
"When did you think of it?"
"Why, when I woke up. Then I remembered."
"You mean that you went home and went to sleep last night?"
"Yes. Not to bed. I threw myself down on the couch in the library and went to sleep with my clothes on. It was about five when I woke up--and remembered. Then I had to wait,--" He looked at me with anxious appeal for understanding,--"I had to wait until some one would be up at the station,--"
"Tell me what you were doing yesterday. It was your twentieth birthday, Mr. Ellison says."