He ceased speaking, crossed one leg over the other, and leant back, looking at Gimblet with an air half ashamed, half ingenuous.
The detective returned his gaze with interest.
“Here,” he was saying to himself, “is a young man either very innocent or beyond the common crafty.”
“Who was it who suggested this questionable proceeding in the first place?” he asked.
“Oh, I really can’t tell you that,” cried Sidney; “it can’t have any importance, and I’m not so dead to all sense of decency as you naturally think!”
“You say you only contemplated it for a short time. Did you tell your friend ultimately that, on second thoughts, you didn’t like the idea and had decided to give it up?”
“It wasn’t necessary. Before I could communicate with my friend I got a message from her—him—my friend, I mean——” Sidney grew scarlet as he realised his slip, but continued hastily in the vain hope of covering it, “a message to say that the plan was ruined. I don’t know what had happened, but for some reason, apparently, it was completely off, irrespective of my jibbing.”
“And so now,” said Gimblet, after a pause, “you have no hope, I suppose, of paying your debts.”
A shade crossed Sidney’s face as he replied sadly: “Devil a hope.”
“There has been no alteration in your prospects since Monday then,” pursued the detective; “you have had no better news to-day? Your difficulties have not so far been removed?” He spoke with great deliberation, while one hand, hidden in his pocket, fingered the telegraph form that Barbara Turner had omitted to sign.