"That book is worth enough to make it theft grand larceny," said Clayton.
"And what alibi does the good Professor Kintyre have?" flung Owens.
"Who but you has a motive for the book to disappear?" said Kintyre. "By God—"
Owens got off the bed and retreated again. Kintyre strode up to him and laid a hand about his wrist. He did not squeeze unduly hard, but Owens opened his mouth to scream, face going paper colored. Kintyre dropped the wrist as if it had turned incandescent. The reaction was unnatural enough, to his mind, to jar him physically.
"That'll do!" rumbled Clayton. He stood up. His grizzled ruddy hair made Kintyre think of a lion's mane, a fighting cock's comb; this man had slugged his own way up from nothingness.
"That'll do," he repeated. "If we can't settle it between ourselves like gentlemen, we'd better call the police."
Owens fumbled his way to the pocket flask, raised it and gulped. A little blood returned to his skin. "I thought you were going to hit me," he said in a tiny voice. "I never could—"
"Owens," said Clayton, "did you steal the book?" His tone fell like iron.
"No." The writer put his flask down on the bureau. He remained standing above it, leaning on his hands, looking back over a hunched shoulder. "No, of course not."
"Mind if we look around to make sure?"