“I’ve just had a real inspiration,” he announced. “Incidentally, I’ve fulfilled my part of our agreement. I’ve found the motive for Frischette’s suicide.”
“Tell us.”
Dick’s face lit in a half-smile. At the moment he did not take Sandy seriously. He doubted very much whether Sandy would be able to advance anything of value concerning the Frenchman’s untimely end. Yet he was mildly curious to learn what the other had to say.
“What is your motive?”
“Before I tell you,” Sandy’s eyes were sparkling now, “I want to ask you a question. Please comb that old wool of yours and help me out as much as you can.”
“Fire away,” smiled Dick.
“The other night when we took the poke away from Burnnel and Emery, can you remember what it felt like?”
Dick broke into a roar of laughter.
“Felt like? What do you mean, Sandy?”
“The poke, of course,” scowled the young Scotchman. “I’m perfectly serious. It’s important. For nearly a minute you held that poke in your hand. Didn’t you feel it? Didn’t you look at it? What were your sensations?”