“You were gone a very short time,” commented Markham, interrupting what promised to be a homily on perverse providence.
“True,” Pfyfe indulgently admitted. “But I met with a most unfortunate accident.” He polished his eye-glass a moment. “My car broke down, and I was necessitated to return.”
“What road did you take?” asked Heath.
Pfyfe delicately adjusted his eye-glass, and regarded the Sergeant with an intimation of boredom.
“My advice, Mr.—ah—Sneed⸺”
“Heath,” the other corrected him surlily.
“Ah, yes—Heath. . . . My advice, Mr. Heath, is, that if you are contemplating a motor trip to the Catskills, you apply to the Automobile Club of America for a road-map. My choice of itinerary might very possibly not suit you.”
He turned back to the District Attorney with an air that implied he preferred talking to an equal.
“Tell me, Mr. Pfyfe,” Markham asked; “did Mr. Benson have any enemies?”
The other appeared to think the matter over.