“Now I see you are dying to tell me. What about Lewis?”
Sinclair gave a start. This man’s instinct was uncanny.
“As I told you, Lewis has bolted. He did not turn up again yesterday, and I sent a man to see if he was ill. He had gone home, coolly packed his things and paid his bill, telling his landlady he would not be back, and gone.”
“And so you think he is the murderer?”
“It is suspicious, but you have not heard all. Of course, this, coupled with his curious manner the day before, caused me to make enquiries. Two important facts have come to light. On the afternoon of the murder he told his typist that he was going out. He was very restless, and said he could not work, and then he seemed to come to a decision, and said, ‘I must go and see Sir James Watson,’ and took his hat and stick.”
“When was this?” said Collins, leaning forward.
“About 2.30, and he did not return till just before I sent for him after the telephone message came.”
Collins laughed.
“Then, you suppose that, having planned the murder and written the letter saying that it had taken place, and posted it, he tells his typist he is going to do it and comes back in time to call you up, and me too, and then answers your bell.”
“I suppose nothing,” said Sinclair, nettled. “I am giving you facts, and I haven’t done.”