Vance had been listening closely.
“Oh—deuced clever!” he now murmured in my ear.
Captain Leacock moved uneasily. His face, even with its deep coat of tan, seemed to pale, and he sought to avoid the implacable gaze of his questioner by concentrating his attention upon some object on the table. When he spoke his voice, heretofore truculent, was colored by anxiety.
“I didn’t have it with me. . . . And I didn’t lend it to anyone.”
Markham sat leaning forward over the desk, his chin on his hand, like a minatory graven image.
“It may be you lent it to someone prior to that morning.”
“Prior to . . ?” Leacock looked up quickly and paused, as if analyzing the other’s remark.
Markham took advantage of his perplexity.
“Have you lent your gun to anyone since you returned from France?”
“No, I’ve never lent it⸺” he began, but suddenly halted and flushed. Then he added hastily. “How could I lend it? I just told you, sir⸺”