“But you believe it’s the gun?” insisted Markham.
“I couldn’t say, but I think so. I might be wrong.”
“Very good, Captain. Take it along, and call me the minute you’ve inspected it thoroughly.”
“It’s the gun, all right,” asserted Heath, when Hagedorn had gone. “I know that bird. He wouldn’t ’ve said as much as he did if he hadn’t been sure. . . . Whose gun is it, sir?”
“I’ll answer you presently.” Markham was still battling against the truth—withholding, even from himself, his pronouncement of the Major’s guilt until every loop-hole of doubt should be closed. “I want to hear from Stitt before I say anything. I sent him to look over Benson and Benson’s books. He’ll be here any moment.”
After a wait of a quarter of an hour, during which time Markham attempted to busy himself with other matters, Stitt came in. He said a sombre good-morning to the District Attorney and Heath; then, catching sight of Vance, smiled appreciatively.
“That was a good tip you gave me. You had the dope. If you’d kept Major Benson away longer, I could have done more. While he was there he was watching me every minute.”
“I did the best I could,” sighed Vance. He turned to Markham: “Y’ know, I was wondering all through lunch yesterday how I could remove the Major from his office during Mr. Stitt’s investigation; and when we learned of Leacock’s confession, it gave me just the excuse I needed. I really didn’t want the Major here,—I simply wished to give Mr. Stitt a free hand.”
“What did you find out?” Markham asked the accountant.
“Plenty!” was the laconic reply.