“I didn't kill him!” The reply was quick enough, but it came weakly. Again, Garson was forced to wet his lips with a dry tongue, and to swallow painfully. “I tell you, I didn't kill him!” he repeated at last, with more force.
Burke sneered his disbelief.
“You killed him last night—with this!” he cried, viciously. On the instant, the pistol leaped into view, pointed straight at Garson. “Why?” the Inspector shouted. “Come on, now! Why?”
“I didn't, I tell you!” Garson was growing stronger, since at last the crisis was upon him. He got to his feet with lithe swiftness of movement, and sprang close to the desk. He bent his head forward challengingly, to meet the glare of his accuser's eyes. There was no flinching in his own steely stare. His nerves had ceased their jangling under the tautening of necessity.
“You did!” Burke vociferated. He put his whole will into the assertion of guilt, to batter down the man's resistance. “You did, I tell you! You did!”
Garson leaned still further forward, until his face was almost level with the Inspector's. His eyes were unclouded now, were blazing. His voice came resonant in its denial. The entire pose of him was intrepid, dauntless.
“And I tell you, I didn't!”
There passed many seconds, while the two men battled in silence, will warring against will.... In the end, it was the murderer who triumphed.
Suddenly, Burke dropped the pistol into his pocket, and lolled back in his chair. His gaze fell away from the man confronting him. In the same instant, the rigidity of Garson's form relaxed, and he straightened slowly. A tide of secret joy swept through him, as he realized his victory. But his outward expression remained unchanged.
“Oh, well,” Burke exclaimed amiably, “I didn't really think you did, but I wasn't sure, so I had to take a chance. You understand, don't you, Joe?”