I looked back at him with a smile on my lips.
"For an expert, Manning," I said, "you take a long time about committing a murder."
He laughed easily. "I am sorry to keep you waiting," he replied. "It won't be very long—I can assure you of that—but there are just one or two little bits of information which I should like to give you first." He came a step closer. "I don't often take people into my confidence, but, you see, in your case I can afford to make an exception. Dead men are notoriously reticent."
I realised that every moment he indulged in the luxury of trying to torment me the more slender became his chances of escape.
"Go ahead, doctor," I said cheerfully. "Your conversation is always stimulating."
Provoking as my attitude must have been, he managed to control himself admirably.
"In the first place," he began, "it may amuse you to learn that the letter which brought you blundering out of the house in that singularly convenient fashion was written by myself."
Incredible as his statement seemed, something told me that he was speaking the truth.
"I congratulate you," I said coolly. "I knew you were a murderer and a thief, but I had no idea that you were an accomplished forger as well."
"You flatter me," he replied. "As a matter of fact it was a very hurried and rather clumsy piece of work. Any intelligent person would probably have seen through it at once." He pulled out an envelope from his pocket and held it up mockingly in front of me. "This is the touching and affectionate original," he added. "It was given to Marie by Christine, and, like a good servant, the old lady promptly handed it on to me. Very trustworthy domestics the French, Dryden."