“See here!” he cried, half in his throat. “At what are you driving? What do you mean by the murder of a priest and the abduction of this girl? Have you come here, Mr. Parsons, bent upon leading me into a net? Are you one of those infernal, double-dealing detectives who seeks to stab a suspect from behind, instead of attacking him openly? Why do you say I was in the grounds of the St. Lawrence Church last evening? Why——”
“Only because you were there,” Nick interrupted. “I can read it in your eyes, in your colorless face. This patched letter alone would convince me that you were there. What was the occasion? Why did you go there? A denial will not avail you anything. Shape the opposite course, Mr. Garland, and confide in me. It would be to your advantage, as it already has been. I am not half a stranger to you—as you can see.”
Nick whipped off his disguise with the last, but the immediate effect upon his hearer was not what he expected. For a half-smothered cry of alarm broke from Garland, instead of the cordial greeting the detective anticipated, and the young man leaped up and darted to the door, at which he listened intently for several seconds, as pale and trembling as if a sheriff with a death warrant awaited him in the outer office.
Nick was compelled to admit to himself that he was somewhat puzzled. He waited without speaking, nevertheless, until Garland turned back and resumed his seat.
“I overlooked for a moment that you came in disguise,” he said nervously, while he seized and warmly pressed both hands of the detective. “Heavens, what a call-down I gave you. But it goes without saying, Nick, and very well you know it, that I fairly worship you and am overjoyed at seeing you.”
Nick smiled oddly and shook his head.
“That remains to be seen, Garland,” he replied.
“What do you mean?”
“I might believe it under different circumstances.”
“Different circumstances? How different?”