“This is murder, and I should not be doing my duty if I did not turn every stone to bring the murderer to justice, I warn you solemnly that there is such a thing as being charged with complicity, and, if you continue to defy me as you do, then I shall have no other course but to take you in charge.”
“My dear man,” said Westerham, “don't be a fool. Let me implore you not to be led by a little exercise of your authority into taking a step which you would for ever regret.
“You have been extremely clever in your theories, but you have not been quite clever enough. I don't wish to be unkind, but you have lacked imagination. This is not some comparatively small affair; it is by no means a vendetta; it is by no means a quarrel over a woman.
“It is an affair in which half the participators act in blind ignorance. There are possibly only three people in existence who can throw any light on the matter. And they occupy such a position in this world that it would be extremely unwise for you to take any steps without their sanction.”
“I don't know who are concerned in the matter,” said the detective. “It is that of which I complain.”
“And I,” answered Westerham, “am not in a position to enlighten you.”
“One thing, however, I can tell you,” said the detective, “and that is that however he may be indirectly concerned in this murder, Melun himself did not actually commit it. I have already ascertained that he was in his club at the time.”
If he expected Westerham to betray the slightest surprise, Rookley was disappointed. For although, as a matter of fact, he was astounded at this information, Sir Paul continued to stare at his interrogator in stony and unemotional silence.
“Indeed!” was the only remark he made.
Mr. Rookley rose and rang the bell, and when the servant appeared, asked him to request Mr. Moore to step upstairs.