They were fencing with each other—fencing with the skill of masters—and Nick set himself to his task with keen zest.
“I undertook the part of bodyguard to Crawford,” he explained, “in order that he might be safe from the murderous attacks of his former friend and partner, James Stone.”
“Oh!” Follansbee played with the pen on his desk. “All this may be very interesting to you,” he said presently, “but I can’t imagine what it has to do with me. If you can enlighten me as to that, perhaps I shall prove a better listener.”
Nick leaned forward quickly, and his clean-cut face was grave and hard. “On second thoughts, I suggest that we throw aside our masks, and go at it face to face,” he said. “I’m telling you this for the very good reason that to my personal knowledge you had a hand in the last fiendish attack which Stone made on Crawford.”
Follansbee raised his vulturelike face and shot a keen glance at the detective.
“I suppose you’re quite sane,” he said slowly, “although your statements sound curiously wild. You deliberately accuse me of having connived with some man of whose identity I am ignorant, to murder some one?”
“I do!” Nick rapped out. “And the reason I accuse you of it is that I saw you—and heard you—conspiring with Stone last night in his room at the Hotel Windermere.”
“Good Lord!”
Stephen Follansbee had betrayed himself. His icy self-command had cracked for a moment, and through the fissure Nick saw a flicker of fear in the beady eyes.