“Now, Sarah, if you were ill, and obliged to go to the doctor, would you tell him only half of your troubles, or would you tell him all?”
“I should tell him all, sir. What do you mean by that question?”
“Never mind; answer me another. How do you suppose I manage to earn my living at the detective business?”
“Why, sir, how can I answer that?”
“I will answer it for you. I accomplish that difficult task by understanding perfectly when people are telling me the truth and when they are deceiving me. Now there is a difference between telling a downright lie, and only telling a part of the truth and withholding the remainder. I don’t think you have told me a lie, to-day, Sarah, but I am quite sure that you have not told me all the truth. There is something you have kept back—something that I should know.”
“Mr. Carter, I——”
“I would not amount to much at my business, Sarah, if I was not sharp enough to discover that much in your conduct this evening.”
“But, really, sir, there is nothing more that I can tell.”
“Tut-tut, Sarah, there is something more that you can tell me, if you will, and that something is about—who shall I say it is about, Sarah? Shall I say it is about Paul Rogers, the fugitive valet, who murdered Mr. Orizaba, or shall I say that it is about Isabel—or, better still, shall I say that it is about both of them?”
“There is nothing more that I can tell, sir.”