The Inspector turned on him fiercely. "Who said we suspected him—anyone? Stamford, Faircloth was your friend; he was not only my friend for five years but my third in command for two. Don't you think you'd better consult an oculist? We always suspect—everyone."
"Then why didn't you round up the whole gang that day?"
"Including yourself and Mrs. Aikens, Inspector West, four ranchers, sixty cowboys——"
"But I——"
"Yes, I know. Same with the others. It isn't always the obvious that explains. Suppose we'd arrested Cockney—or anyone at that time, where would have been our proof? We didn't even find the rifles—except Kid Loveridge's. Clues don't grow on bulberry bushes in a country where everyone can shoot—and so many do."
Stamford was thinking rapidly. The repetition of Cockney's name seemed to confirm his suspicions of the direction of the Police search.
"The thing has got a bit too much for my nerves—or something," he declared abruptly. "I've got to get away from it for a time—take a holiday. In reality it was to tell you that I came down."
"It isn't in the Police regulations, you know."
"Perhaps not, but I wanted you to know in case—in case anything happened."
"Nothing will happen—if you mind your own business."