"There's a mistake somewhere," broke in Brodie. "I know Mr. Morris's car, and that isn't it."
Lamotte was positively annoyed that his word should appear to be doubted.
"Messieurs," he said grandiloquently, "I assure you on my honor that I am not misleading you."
Nor was he. The discrepancy was cleared up next day. The Morris automobile was undergoing repairs, and the motor manufacturers had supplied the gray car for use in the interim.
Steingall swept the matter aside impatiently.
"Go on," he said to the Frenchman. "You're taking a note of this?" he added, glancing at police captain Evans.
"Got it," was the laconic reply.
"There is nothing else," said Lamotte. "I noticed that I was being followed, and soon discovered that I could not shake off a more powerful car. I was armed, but did not want to get into trouble on my own account, and I knew that I would have to deal with three men. So I decided to throw the car in the river, and trust to my wits for a means of escape. I would have succeeded, too, had I been aware that there was a fourth man in the party. From where I lay hidden beneath the wharf I could only count the number of people who crossed to the barge. I was unable to see them, so I included the chauffeur among the three. I was wrong. Perhaps it is as well, because I meant to get away, and would have fought.… That is all.… Will one of you give me a cigarette?"
Devar produced a case, and in response to Steingall's nod, offered its contents to the prisoner, who took two cigarettes; nor could he be prevailed on to accept more. Despite his hang-dog looks he had an undoubted air of refinement. Degeneracy had claimed him as its own, yet some streak of a nobler heredity had struggled to exert its influence, only to fail.
Steingall put no more questions, and Lamotte relapsed into silence, smoking nonchalantly while the police captain's pen was scratching a transcript of the shorthand notes.