“Aren’t you going rather too fast?” said Robin quietly.
But the detective ignored him.
“Come on and answer my question, my man,” he said harshly. “Didn’t you think it was Mr. Hartley Parrish and Mr. Greve here having a bit of a dust-up about the young lady being engaged to Mr. Parrish?”
“Well, perhaps I did, but....”
Like a flash the detective turned on Robin.
“What do you know about this?” he demanded fiercely.
“Nothing,” said Greve. “As I have told you already, I did not see Mr. Parrish alive again after lunch, nor did I speak to him. What I would suggest to you now is that upon this evidence of Bude’s depends the vitally important question of how Mr. Parrish met his death. Though he was found with a revolver in his hand, none of us in this house know of any good motive for his suicide. I put it to you that the man who can furnish us with this motive is the owner of the voice heard by Bude in conversation with Mr. Parrish, since obviously nobody other than Mr. Parrish and possibly this unknown person was in the library block at the time. And I would further remark, Mr. Manderton, that, until the bullet has been extracted, we do not know that Mr. Parrish killed himself...”
“No,” said the detective significantly, “we don’t!”
He had dropped his eyes to the ground now and was studying the pattern of the hearth-rug.
“You say you heard no shot?” he suddenly asked Robin.