"I, I say. Pauline is my prize. I wouldn't be left out in the cold." And he added bitterly: "We've all got one!—all guilty!—a lovely story it will make for the newspapers. I suppose, to keep up the screaming farce, that we each ought to contrive to have our prisoner tried in a different court!"
Clarke's hands went akimbo. He swelled visibly, grew larger, taller, and looked down from his Olympus at the others.
"But I never dream at night," he cried. "When I arrest a man for murder he is going to be hanged. You see, Janoc has confessed—that's all: he has confessed!"
Winter leaped up.
"Confessed!" he hissed, unable to believe his ears.
"That's just it," said Clarke—"confessed!"
"But Pauline has confessed, too!" Winter almost screamed, confronting his subordinate like an adversary.
And while Clarke shrank, and gaped in dumb wonder, Furneaux, looking from one to the other, burst out laughing. Never a word he said, but turned in his quick way to leave the room. He was already in the corridor when Winter shouted:
"Come back, Furneaux!"
"Not I," was the defiant retort.