“Because every time I arrange to examine this apartment or inquire into Rochester's whereabouts you show up.” Ferguson's small eyes were trying to out-stare Kent, but the latter's clear gaze did not drop before his. “Are you aiding Philip Rochester in his efforts to elude arrest?”
“I am not,” declared Kent emphatically. “What prompts the question?”
“The fact that you are Rochester's partner,” Ferguson pointed out; his manner was still stiff. “It would be only natural for you to help him disappear out of friendship, or”—with a sidelong glance—“from a desire to hush up a scandal.”
“On the contrary I want Rochester found and every bit of evidence against him sifted out and aired,” retorted Kent. “Two heads are better than one, Ferguson; let us work together. Rochester must be located within the next twenty-four hours.”
Ferguson debated a moment, but Kent's speech as well as his manner indicated his sincerity, and the detective shook off his suspicions. “Have you had any further news of your partner?” he asked.
“No; that is”—recalling the scene in the bank early that afternoon—“nothing that relates to Rochester's present whereabouts. Now, Ferguson, to put your charges against Rochester in concrete form, you believe that he was insanely jealous of Jimmie Turnbull, that he recognized him in the Police Court in his burglar disguise, slipped a dose of aconitine in a glass of water which Turnbull drank, and after declaring that his friend had died from angina pectoris, disappeared. Is that all the case you have against him?”
“At present, yes,” admitted the detective cautiously.
“All circumstantial evidence—”
“But it will hold in court—”
“Ah, will it?” questioned Kent. “There's one big flaw in your case, Ferguson; the poison used to kill Turnbull.”