When one is angry, to be baffled in argument does not have a sedative effect as a rule. If we were all philosophers it might; but being merely human beings, cold reason acts on the inflamed temperament as a red rag is said to affect a bull.
Desmond, sick with the sense of failure and his anxiety about Barbara, was in no mood to listen to reason. The cold logic of his brother infuriated him mainly because Desmond knew that Francis was right.
“I don’t care a damn for the evidence,” vociferated Desmond; “It may look black against Nur-el-Din; I daresay it does; but I have met and talked to this girl and I tell you again that she is not a principal in this affair but a victim!”
“You talk as if you were in love with the woman!” Francis said mockingly.
Desmond went rather white.
“If pity is a form of love,” he replied in a low voice, “then I am, for God knows I never pitied any woman as I pity Nur-el-Din! Only you, I suppose,” he added bitterly, “are too much of the policeman, Francis, to appreciate anything like that!” Hot tempers run in families and Francis flared up on the instant.
“I may be a policeman, as you say,” he retorted, “but I’ve got enough sense of my duty, I hope, not to allow sentimentality to interfere with my orders!”
It was a shrewd thrust and it caught Desmond on the raw.
“I’m sick of arguing here,” he said hotly, “if you’re so mighty clever, you’d better shoot Nur-el-Din first and arrest Strangwise afterwards. Then you’ll find out which of us two is right!”
He turned on his heel and started for the little bridge leading out onto the fen.