“Yes.”
“Is it wise that the emissary of Scotland Yard should leave Steynholme?”
“But didn’t I tell you that I might obtain light in the neighborhood of Cornhill?”
“True. I could have given you the facts in Steynholme.”
“I’m a greater believer in what the theater people call ‘atmosphere.’ Some of your facts, Mr. Ingerman, remind me of an expert’s report in a mining prospectus. When tested by cyanide of potassium the gold in the ore often changes into iron pyrites. But don’t hug the delusion that I shall neglect Steynholme. The murderer is there, not in London, and, unless my intellect is failing, he will be tried for his life at the next Lewes Assizes. Meanwhile, may I give you a bit of advice?”
“By all means.”
“Employ a sound lawyer, one who will avoid needless mud-slinging. Good day! Send those letters to the Yard by to-night’s post if practicable.”
“It shall be done.”
When the door closed on Furneaux, Ingerman smiled.
“I’ve given that little Frenchman furiously to think,” he murmured.