“Blenkinson!” I bawled. “By God, Blenkinson’s got something to answer for to me. What lies has he been spreading?”
“He has the proofs. It’s sure as if ’e saw ’em with ’is own eyes.”
“Saw what? Saw who?”
“Saw the killin’s. The three Americans did ’em, and they’ll make shares of Mr. Cosgrove’s money.”
My fingers itched for his throat, but black fear blazed in my heart. “Liar!” I screamed. “They’ll hang you sooner than her! Don’t you know she won’t touch a penny of it until the killer’s found!”
The man on the ground maintained a sullen obstinacy. “Sometimes them hangs as isn’t guilty, and them suffers as finds out. The milkman knew it was ’er, and look what ’appened to ’im.”
“You poor, blind fool,” I exclaimed bitterly. “There’s jealousy and hatred in this somewhere. Damn Blenkinson. Why, there isn’t a particle of evidence—”
“There is, there is,” he gasped. “There’s court evidence to ’ang ’er when Mr. Blenkinson comes out with it.”
“What evidence? Tell me!”
He writhed in my clutch. “The beetle-stone as she lost from ’er ring that day. She tried to keep it secret, but it got about. Mr. Blenkinson found it right in the same place as the stone she did the killin’ with. There wasn’t a foot between ’em.”