"Heavens, man, but you don't think I committed still another murder," said Sir Edgar, incredulously. "I say, that's going a bit too far you know. I can understand a joke, but as to your thinking for one moment that I should do such a low-down dirty thing as to murder a woman, and an old one at that——"
Cleek laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"Not so fast, my friend, not so fast," said he with a little laugh. "There's an old French proverb which says qui s'excuse, s'accuse. Perhaps you know it. But the evidence is strong against you. What about that revolver with the 'B' on it? Perhaps you'll deny that?"
"I do, most emphatically I do!" responded Sir Edgar with a little snort of indignation. "That belonged to the old woman herself, I snatched it from her, and——"
"Cheyne does not to my knowledge begin with a 'B'," threw in Cleek, quietly. "The revolver bears your initial and a jury is a difficult thing to convince when facts are strong."
"Stuff and nonsense!" spluttered forth Sir Edgar, red with anger. "You can have me arrested straight away, if you like, but whatever happens, I mean to find Margaret, and to find out why I was lured away last night. You know where to find me when you want me." Turning angrily on his heel, he walked out, leaving Cleek smiling quietly to himself and rather liking this young spit-fire for the way in which he had risen to his fly.
"So he knows there is no danger of being convicted for a revolver-shot, does he? Now did he administer that prussic acid, or did he not?" was the next thought that passed through his mind.
He picked up his little bag and started toward the police station, where he hoped to meet Mr. Narkom.
It was a gorgeous spring morning, and at the top of the lane he could see a little group of people advancing toward him, in the first and foremost of whom he recognized Ailsa.