“Do you mean to say that you think you know who murdered Sir James and you are not going to tell who it was?” said Boyce.
“I never had any doubt in my own mind at all. But to give him up—no, I am afraid that would be impossible. You see, he doesn’t exist.”
“Doesn’t exist? What nonsense. Are you trying one of your jokes on us?” said Boyce, crossly; he hated mysteries.
“He’s gone, disappeared, vamoosed.”
“Do you mean he’s dead?” said Boyce.
“The question is, did he ever exist?”
“Oh, I’ve no patience with this sort of talk,” said Boyce. “If you know anything, for goodness sake say what it is; if not, don’t talk in riddles.”
Sinclair had been watching keenly. His face was grave.
“Yes, I think I know what you mean,” he said.
“Oh, you, too. What on earth are you getting at?”