He put his hand up to his collar, as if it had suddenly become tight.
“It’s a lie that Edwin Lawrence was murdered last night. It’s a lie.”
“By the way, sir, what is your name?”
“What’s it to do with you?”
“Chancing to notice in your letter-case some visiting-cards, I ventured to abstract one. We will refer to that.” I produced it from my waistcoat pocket. “From this it appears that you are Mr. Isaac Bernstein, of 288, Great Poland Street. Very good, Mr. Bernstein. Your bills are in safe keeping. You will hear of them again, never fear. Their history will be threshed out to your complete satisfaction—when you will be wanted again. Until then you can go.”
“It’s a lie that he was murdered—it’s a lie.”
“On that point you may be able to obtain information from Mr. and Mrs. Morley, or from the first policeman you meet in the street.”
“God help us all!” groaned Mr. Morley.
Apparently there was something in the old gentleman’s ejaculation which carried sufficient corroboration to Mr. Bernstein’s alert intelligence. He quitted the room to presently return.
“Who—who killed him?”