Colby’s sleepless, smarting eyeballs turned to follow Nesbit’s gaze. They stared at the benevolent St. Bernard dog and the coy, impossible child in the pink starched dress.
Colby’s voice was dull and expressionless when he spoke.
“You don’t have to play with me, Nesbit. How much do you know?”
Nesbit was suddenly still.
“How much do you know?” repeated Colby apathetically. “I didn’t think you knew the money was behind that picture, but I’ve known for a long time you knew the rest. How did you find out?”
Nesbit mumbled inarticulately, staring at Colby.
“You don’t have to take me out hunting tomorrow,” continued Colby in a flat, dull voice. “I’ll show you where I buried Grahame after I shot him. You can count the money I got from him. It’s all there.”
It may be that Nesbit started, or perhaps he did not; but he looked steadily at Colby now, and embarrassment had dropped from him.
Colby managed a mirthless grin. He was sick at heart. He didn’t know how much evidence Nesbit had, but it was enough; and he was tired—so hopelessly tired!
His voice was flat and lifeless. The small insistent noises of the world outside intruded into his speech at first; but his tone rose when he spoke of the letter. He had already told everything else, even where and how he had hidden Grahame’s body.