“Is it any of my business,” asked Markham quietly, “that the bullet which killed your brother was fired from your gun?”
The Major looked at him steadily, his mouth a sneer.
“That’s the kind of double-crossing you do!—invite me here to arrest me, and then ask me questions to incriminate myself when I’m unaware of your suspicions. A fine dirty sport you are!”
Vance leaned forward.
“You fool!” His voice was very low, but it cut like a whip. “Can’t you see he’s your friend, and is asking you these questions in a last desp’rate hope that you’re not guilty?”
The Major swung round on him hotly.
“Keep out of this—you damned sissy!”
“Oh, quite,” murmured Vance.
“And as for you,”—he pointed a quivering finger at Markham—“I’ll make you sweat for this! . . .”
Vituperation and profanity poured from the man. His nostrils were expanded, his eyes blazing. His wrath seemed to surpass all human bounds: he was like a person in an apoplectic fit—contorted, repulsive, insensate.