Anthony ground his heel savagely into the gravel.
“I suppose it was secreted behind the sliding panel in Deacon’s room, all according to Cocker?”
“Don’t know anything about any sliding panel, sir; nor any Mr. Cocker. But Deacon’s room is just where we did find it. I verified the numbers of the notes from the bank.”
“What’s Deacon say about it?”
The detective barked scornfully. “Said Mr. Hoode gave it to him for a birthday present. Lord, a birthday present! So probable, isn’t it, sir?”
“Why the withering irony, Boyd? It’s so improbable that it’s probably true.”
Boyd snorted. “Now, sir, just think about it! Turn it over in your mind, so to speak. Deacon’s alibi turns out all wrong. His movements last night fit the time of the murder. A hundred pounds drawn from the bank by the deceased are found stuffed into a collar-box in Deacon’s room—a good hiding-place, but not one to put a ‘birthday-present’ in. And, sir, Deacon’s finger-prints are found on the weapon which the murder was done with! Why! it’s a case in a million, so to speak. Wish they were all as easy.”
“All right, Boyd; all right. I’ll admit you’ve some justification. Yes—I suppose—queer about those finger-prints! Very queer!”
Boyd smiled. “In fact, they settle the business by themselves, as you might say.” His kindly face grew grave. “It’s quite clear, sir, I think. That murder—one of the worst in my experience—was done for the sake of a paltry hundred pounds!”
Anthony was not moved. “And your culprit, I presume,” he said, “languishes in Marling’s jail.”