“Yes, that’s right, something of the sort,” Tulmin responded, with a grin.
I was a little taken aback at his almost good-humoured frankness. His was certainly not the attitude of a man who stood in fear of pursuit.
“But surely,” I said, “it’s you the police are looking for.”
“Me? What should they want with me?” he growled, sitting suddenly upright.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I’m not very well up in the case. It was my cousin that told me. ‘I believe, myself, it was suicide,’ she said, ‘but the police think differently, and they’re looking for Tulmin, who ran away.’”
He rose from his seat and thumped the table angrily, though his face grew a little white. Stillman, who had been watching him carefully, poured out a glass of whisky and handed it to him. Tulmin gulped it down at a draught and seemed to recover his nerve.
“But didn’t you run away?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t, damn you! Who said I ran away?”
“But you disappeared.”
“Mr. Thoyne knew where I was.”