Hayden held up a cautioning hand. “Hold on, Burnham, we do not know for certain that La Montagne shot at you on Thursday night; your charge is unsubstantiated.”
“I am morally certain of it,” declared Burnham, sitting bolt upright. “Not only that he tried to get me then, but that he killed the unknown man here on Monday night in mistake for me.”
“What!” Hayden regarded Burnham’s flushed countenance with keen attention. “Come, come, Burnham, don’t talk nonsense; be sensible.”
“You can think me cracked if you like.” Burnham’s jaw protruded obstinately. “Let me tell you something: La Montagne expected to find me here Monday night because I wrote him to meet me here.”
“You did!” Hayden stared in astonishment at his patient. “Why did you make an appointment with him if you did not like or trust the man?”
“Because I wanted him to understand, once and for all, that neither Mrs. Burnham nor I would permit Evelyn to marry him.” Burnham cleared his throat, his voice having grown husky. “Evelyn was expected in Washington and I wanted the Frenchman told before they met.”
“Well, did you see La Montagne Monday night?” asked Hayden.
“No, business in Philadelphia upset my plans.” Burnham’s eyes again shifted from his physician. “I did not reach Washington until Tuesday.”
“Oh!” Hayden stroked his chin reflectively. Burnham was certainly working himself into a state of nervous agitation, and the astute physician was wondering how much reliance to place upon his statements. It was very obvious, however, that Burnham was bent on talking to some one, and Hayden decided it was better to thresh the subject out with him, rather than have him bottle up his spleen and nurse his wrongs, fancied or otherwise.
“Let us look at the situation sensibly and without excitement,” he said. “You believe La Montagne killed this unknown man in mistake for you?”