“In due course that will be made plain; also your association with the motive which was in the murderer’s mind, causing him to compass the death of the man whom you had incited to the perpetration of a hideous and unnatural crime.”
Mr. Bernstein went out of the house without another word. When I heard the door bang, I turned to the old people.
“You see? That is the way in which to treat impertinent persons who presume upon your master’s absence to traduce his name and to take liberties with the establishment which he has left in your charge.”
The old gentleman shook his head.
“It’s easy talking, but we haven’t all got your persuasive manner, sir.”
It was an absurd thing for him to say, for no one knows better than myself that my manner is rude and awkward, and that I am unskilled in all those arts which go to make the master of persuasion. As I followed Mr. Bernstein out of the house, almost immediately, I had an illustration of how true that is. And again, in a more serious matter, a little later on.
CHAPTER XVII.
MY UNPERSUASIVE MANNER
As I left the house a man came across the pavement as if with the intention of knocking at Philip Lawrence’s door. At sight of me coming down the steps he stopped short. It was young Moore. His appearance set the blood tingling in my veins; his hat was cocked at an acute angle on one side of his head; a cigar was stuck in the corner of his mouth. There was something in his bearing, and about the way in which he spoke, which showed that he had been drinking.
“What are you doing in that house? You answer me that! Seems to me that you’ve got a finger in every pie.”
He addressed me in tones which were probably audible in Piccadilly.