Pfyfe gave the District Attorney a faint smile of annoyance, without deigning even to glance at the Sergeant.
“I misspoke myself; forgive me. It was not a revolver. It was, I believe, an automatic army pistol—though, you understand, I didn’t see it in its entirety.”
“You say there were others who witnessed the altercation?”
“Several of my guests were standing about,” Pfyfe explained; “but, on my word, I couldn’t name them. The fact is, I attached little importance to the threat—indeed, it had entirely slipped my memory until I read the account of poor Alvin’s death. Then I thought at once of the unfortunate incident, and said to myself: Why not tell the District Attorney. . . ?”
“Thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” murmured Vance, who had been sitting through the interview in oppressive boredom.
Pfyfe once more adjusted his eye-glass, and gave Vance a withering look.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
Vance smiled disarmingly.
“Merely a quotation from Gray. Poetry appeals to me in certain moods, don’t y’ know. . . . Do you, by any chance, know Colonel Ostrander?”
Pfyfe looked at him coldly, but only a vacuous countenance met his gaze.