A film came over her eyes.
“And—poor boy!—he confessed because he thought that I was guilty.”
“That’s precisely the harrowin’ situation,” nodded Vance. “But where did he think you had obtained a weapon?”
“I know many army men—friends of his and of Major Benson’s. And last summer at the mountains I did considerable pistol practice for the fun of it. Oh, the idea was reasonable enough.”
Vance rose and made a courtly bow.
“You’ve been most gracious—and most helpful,” he said. “Y’ see, Mr. Markham had various theories about the murder. The first, I believe, was that you alone were the Madam Borgia. The second was that you and the Captain did the deed together—à quatre mains, as it were. The third was that the Captain pulled the trigger a cappella. And the legal mind is so exquisitely developed that it can believe in several conflicting theories at the same time. The sad thing about the present case is that Mr. Markham still leans toward the belief that both of you are guilty, individually and collectively. I tried to reason with him before coming here; but I failed. Therefore, I insisted upon his hearing from your own charming lips your story of the affair.”
He went up to Markham who sat glaring at him with lips compressed.
“Well, old chap,” he remarked pleasantly, “surely you are not going to persist in your obsession that either Miss St. Clair or Captain Leacock is guilty, what? . . . And won’t you relent and unshackle the Captain as I begged you to?”
He extended his arms in a theatrical gesture of supplication.
Markham’s wrath was at the breaking-point, but he got up deliberately and, going to the woman, held out his hand.