“He says you murdered Philip Clevedon.”
He stood speechless for a moment or two, then turned away with a short laugh.
“What the devil do you mean?” he shouted. “What blasted foolery have you in mind now? You are a damned fool, the damndest of damned fools. I have never seen Miss Grainger’s father, and he has never seen me. I am getting sick of the very sight of you about. You persistently follow me up as if you thought that I killed Clevedon. Well, if you do think so, why not arrest me and have done with it. I would sooner face a jury and take my trial than put up with this perpetual persecution.”
“It is your own fault,” I returned equably. “You will tell me nothing, and your whole attitude is a challenge. You kept secret your knowledge of Clevedon’s past, but I found that out. You did not tell me where Tulmin was, but I tracked him down. You have said nothing about Mary Grainger. Then there was Clevedon’s visit to you on the night of his death, and the medicine you handed him which—”
“I never have committed murder,” he cried, turning on me with a savage intensity which betokened the inward strain, “but I am nearer to it at this moment than I ever thought I should be. If I stay here I shan’t be able to trust myself. I—”
He left me abruptly, and vaulting a low rubble wall, made off at a quick pace across some fields which gave him a short cut to White Towers.
But in something under two hours he had joined me at Stone Hollow.
“I apologise,” he said, as he strode into my study. “I apologise for everything I said. You were right, and I was a fool. You told me that Grainger had accused me of murdering Clevedon. Well, now he has written to Billy—”
“About the murder?” I asked.
“No, damn the murder—something a lot worse than that,” he responded. “He accuses me of bigamy—says I have a wife living. It’s got to be sorted out now—because of Kitty—and I’ve come to you.”