The Inspector went out of the room with the cloak rolled up under his arm—I making no sort of effort to prevent him. The truth is that I was conscious that I had succeeded in making an ass of myself, and in nothing else, that the backbone had all gone out of me, and I felt as limp as a rag.
And yet that imbecile old Morley had prated of my persuasive manner!
CHAPTER XVIII.
I AM CALLED
Had I had my way, that night, Miss Moore would have sought a place of refuge, where she could have lain hidden till the cloud passed over and her integrity was made clear. Anything, to my mind, was better than that she should run even a momentary risk of a policeman’s contaminating hands. But Hume would have none of it.
Some one knocked at the door, while I was sitting on the side of the bed, wondering, since I had failed to do murder, if suicide was not the next best thing. It was Hume. He gave me one of his swift, keen glances as he came in.
“Anything fresh?”
“Man, I’ve made an idiot of myself—an idiot.”
“Ah! But what I said was, Is there anything fresh?”
I told him the story of my interview with Symonds. He kept on smiling all the time, as if it had been a funny tale. When I had finished he rubbed his chin.
“You’ve burned your boats, that’s clear. You’ll never hang for the lady. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put that murder story of yours together again. You’ve managed very well, my dear Ferguson.”