“The answer, old thing, is a lemon. Nary suspicion. But what’s all this about data? Found anythin’ fresh?”
“Oh, well, you know”—Anthony waved vague hands. “Possibly yes, possibly no, if you follow me. I mean, you never can tell.”
Deacon smiled. “Kamerad!” he said. “Served me right. But that’s me all over, I’m afraid. Damn nosey! But you must admit I’m an interested party.”
“I do,” Anthony said; then suddenly leaned forward. “Have you told me all you know?” he asked. “And are you going to tell me anything you don’t know, but merely feel?”
Deacon was silent for perhaps a minute. “I can’t tell you anything more that I know,” he said at last and slowly. “And as to the other, what exactly are you driving at? D’you mean: do I definitely suspect any one as being the murderer?”
Anthony nodded. “Just that.”
“Then the answer’s no. But I’ll tell you what I do feel very strongly, and that’s that it isn’t any one belonging to the house.”
“So you think that, do you?” said Anthony. “You know, I’ve heard that before about this affair.”
Deacon sat up. “Oh! And what do you think? The reverse?”
Anthony shrugged non-committal shoulders.