For a full minute they remained looking at each other. The policeman appeared intent on biting the feathers of his pen; in reality, he was studying the face of Mr. Chattaway with a critical acumen his apparently careless demeanour imparted little idea of. He saw the blood mount under the dark skin; he saw the eye lighten with emotion: but the emotion was more like that called forth by anger than guilt. At least, so the police officer judged; and habit had rendered him a pretty correct observer. Mr. Chattaway was the first to speak.
"How do you know anything of the sort took place?—any interview?"
"It was watched—that is, accidentally seen. A person was passing at the time, and has mentioned it to-day."
"Who was the person?"
Bowen did not reply to the question. The omission may have been accidental, since he was hastening to put one on his own account.
"Do you deny this, Mr. Chattaway?"
"No. I wish I had the opportunity of acknowledging it to Mr. Rupert Trevlyn in the manner he deserves," continued Mr. Chattaway, in what looked like a blaze of anger.
"It is said that after the—the encounter, Rupert Trevlyn was left as one dead," cautiously resumed Bowen.
"Psha!" was the scornful retort. "Dead! He got up and ran away."
A very different account from that of Jim Sanders. Bowen was silent for a minute, endeavouring, most likely, to reconcile the two. "Have you any objection to state what took place, sir?"