“Am I suspected of complicity in the crime?” Leacock spoke with a slight Southern accent.
“That remains to be seen,” Markham told him coldly. “It is to determine that point that I wish to question you.”
The other sat rigidly in his chair and waited.
Markham fixed him with a direct gaze.
“You recently made a threat on Mr. Alvin Benson’s life, I believe.”
Leacock started, and his fingers tightened over his knees. But before he could answer, Markham continued:
“I can tell you the occasion on which the threat was made,—it was at a party given by Mr. Leander Pfyfe.”
Leacock hesitated; then thrust forward his jaw.
“Very well, sir; I admit I made the threat. Benson was a cad—he deserved shooting. . . . That night he had become more obnoxious than usual. He’d been drinking too much—and so had I, I reckon.”
He gave a twisted smile, and looked nervously past the District Attorney out of the window.