“Frankly, yes. Now, keep calm, René; this thing has got to be thrashed out in sober earnest and if Burnham is determined to involve you in the attempted shooting, it is up to us to prove him a liar,” continued Maynard. “We can only do that by discussing the matter at every angle.”
“True,” admitted the Frenchman, but his hot color had not gone down, although his manner was more tranquil. “Aside from all else there is one point which establishes my innocence.”
“What is that? The presence of the taxi-driver?”
“Non, non! If I had shot at Burnham I would have killed him! See——” touching one of his medals which he wore. “It is for marksmanship. If you do not believe——” His hand sought his desk drawer and he whipped out his revolver—the tinkle of the shattered glass of the small incandescent electric light bulb, one of a cluster of imitation candles in the hall, broke the tense silence. “Voilà!”
Maynard sprang to his feet, his eyes glued to the automatic pistol. “Good God! You have a Maxim silencer on your gun!”
“But yes,” responded La Montague composedly.
“But, but——?” Maynard’s words tumbled over themselves. “It is forbidden by law to put a Maxim silencer on any weapon.”
“Laws are broken daily in America, mon ami; why so excited over trifles?”
“Trifles!” Maynard ruffled his hair. “René, the man who shot at Burnham used a revolver or pistol with a Maxim silencer on it.”
“Eh bien! What then?”