Pfyfe adopted an air of compassionate surprise.
“With my dearest friend foully murdered? How could one have the heart to seek diversion at such a sad moment? . . . I returned home, and informed Mrs. Pfyfe that my car had broken down.”
“You might have driven home in your car, it seems to me,” observed Markham.
Pfyfe offered a look of infinite forbearance for the other’s inspection, and took a deep sigh, which conveyed the impression that, though he could not sharpen the world’s perceptions, he at least could mourn for its deplorable lack of understanding.
“If I had been in the Catskills away from any source of information, where Mrs. Pfyfe believed me to be, how would I have heard of Alvin’s death until, perhaps, days afterward? You see, unfortunately I had not mentioned to Mrs. Pfyfe that I was stopping over in New York. The truth is, Mr. Markham, I had reason for not wishing my wife to know I was in the city. Consequently, if I had driven back at once, she would, I regret to say, have suspected me of breaking my journey. I therefore pursued the course which seemed simplest.”
Markham was becoming annoyed at the man’s fluent hypocrisy. After a brief silence he asked abruptly:
“Did the presence of your car at Benson’s house that night have anything to do with your apparent desire to implicate Captain Leacock in the affair?”
Pfyfe lifted his eyebrows in pained astonishment, and made a gesture of polite protestation.
“My dear sir!” His voice betokened profound resentment of the other’s unjust imputation. “If yesterday you detected in my words an undercurrent of suspicion against Captain Leacock, I can account for it only by the fact that I actually saw the Captain in front of Alvin’s house when I drove up that night.”
Markham shot a curious look at Vance; then said to Pfyfe: