That style of argument invariably nettled Furneaux.
"You must butt into a few more mysterious suites of apartments in London and elsewhere, and you'll supply proof in bucketfuls," he snapped.
"But was there an accomplice? Squirm as you like, you can't get over the fact that Hilton was in his room when the bullet that killed his father came from the wood."
"He is not the sort of person likely to trust his liberty, his life even, to the keeping of any other human being. I start from the hypothesis that he alone planned and carried out the crime, so I do not lift my hand and cry 'Impossible,' but I ask myself, 'How was it done?' Well, there are several methods worthy of consideration—clockwork, electricity, even a time fuse attached to the proper mechanism. I haven't really bothered myself yet to determine the means, because when that knowledge becomes indispensable we must have our man under lock and key."
"Of course, the rifle is securely fixed in that——"
The door opened. Tomlinson came in, smiling blandly.
"I hope you are enjoying your dinner, gentlemen both?" he said.
"You have made your cook an artist," said Furneaux.
"I suppose you are happier here than in a big London restaurant," said Winter.
The butler appreciated such subtle compliments, and beamed on them.