The Major went quickly to him and touched him on the arm.
“It’s all right, Leacock,” he said softly. “I can’t think that you really shot Alvin.”
The Captain turned apprehensive eyes upon him.
“Of course, I shot him.” His voice was flat. “I told him I was going to.”
Vance came forward, and indicated a chair.
“Sit down, Captain. The District Attorney wants to hear your story of the shooting. The law, you understand, does not accept murder confessions without corroborat’ry evidence. And since, in the present case, there are suspicions against others than yourself, we want you to answer some questions in order to substantiate your guilt. Otherwise, it will be necess’ry for us to follow up our suspicions.”
Taking a seat facing Leacock, he picked up the confession.
“You say here you were satisfied that Mr. Benson had wronged you, and you went to his house at about half past twelve on the night of the thirteenth. . . . When you speak of his wronging you, do you refer to his attentions to Miss St. Clair?”
Leacock’s face betrayed a sulky belligerence.
“It doesn’t matter why I shot him.—Can’t you leave Miss St. Clair out of it?”