“You wouldn’t have believed me. The goblin was disappearing. I had to shoot quick.”
“Why shoot at all?”
“Sir, there are certain manifestations I object to on principle. What self-respecting ghost ever wore whiskers?”
“This was no ghost. You shot the man’s hat off.”
“Then what the blazes are you growling at? Had I, in blood-curdling whisper, told you that once again there was a face at the window, you would have scoffed at me. The ill-looking scamp caught my eye after his first glance at Grant. He was mizzling when I fired. You would have sat there and argued about hypnosis, with our worthy author’s skilled support. And there would have been no hat! I do an admirable bit of trick shooting, yet I am only reviled for my dexterity. Really, Charles François!”
“Ah! You remember, at last,” and the detective smiled sourly.
“Parfaitement! as they say in Paris, where you and I met once, though ’twas in a crowd. But I didn’t steal the blessed pearl. I believe it was that blatant patriot, Domengo Suarez.”
“You’ve got some brains, then. Why not use them? Don’t you see what a fix we three would have found ourselves in had you shot the man?”
“But, consider, Carlo mio! A spook with whiskers! What court would find me guilty? Let me produce the authentic record of Owd Ben, and I have no doubt but that the Lord Chief Justice himself would have potted his representative. He’d be bound to confess it.”
Furneaux was cooling down.