“Come, come, sir,” urged the detective, “this is not a time for jesting.”
“I am not jesting,” said Westerham, and relapsed into silence.
“Don't you think,” asked the detective after a little while, “it would be better if you were to make a clean breast of everything?”
“I tell you frankly, Mr. Robinson,” he continued, “that I have changed my opinion about yourself. At first I thought you were a dupe of Melun's, but I was soon convinced that a man so astute as yourself could not possibly have been misled even by that clever scoundrel.
“Indeed, it seemed to me improbable that a gentleman of such ingenuity as yourself should have become a victim of any conspiracy. No, sir, it appears to me—mind, I am giving you every credit—that you are in some way bound up with a very extraordinary network of crime.
“What it is, of course, I cannot tell, unless you trust me. I wish you would see the wisdom of giving me your confidence. In the meantime I can only theorise.”
Mr. Rookley paused and looked infinitely wise.
“Go on,” said Westerham.
“In all probability,” Mr. Rookley proceeded, “you have become involved in some peculiar kind of vendetta. I assure you, sir, that when you are as versed in the machinations of mankind as I am you will not find such a supposition as mine at all romantic.
“If, however, such is the case, then Melun plays a part in it. And if Melun plays a part in it,” concluded the detective, with a fine show of pitiless logic, “then he had a hand in this. Now tell me, sir, do you suspect him?”