“No man is beyond my reach who has broken the 261 law.” The detective’s voice was quietly controlled, yet each word pierced the silence like a sword-thrust. “I have been threatened with ruin, with death, many times by criminals of all classes, from defaulting financiers to petty thieves, but I still live, and my fortunes have not been materially impaired. I do not court publicity, but I cannot shirk my duty because it entails that. And in this case my duty is plain. You, Bertrand Rockamore, came here, secretly, by night, to try to persuade Mr. Lawton to go in with you on a crooked scheme––to force him to, by blackmail, if necessary, on an old score. Failing in that, you killed him, to prevent the nefarious operations of yourself and your companions from being brought to light!”
“You’re mad, I tell you!” roared Rockamore. “Whoever stuffed you with such idiotic rot as that is making gammon of you! That conversation is a chimera of some disordered mind, if it isn’t merely part of a deliberate conspiracy of yours against me! You’ll suffer for this, my man! I’ll break you if it is the last act of my life! Such a conference never took place, and you know it!”
“‘Come, Lawton, be sensible; half a loaf is better than no bread,’” Blaine quoted slowly. “‘There is no blackmail about this––it is an ordinary business proposition.’
“‘It’s a damnable crooked scheme, and I shall have nothing to do with it. This is final! My hands are clean, and I can look every man in the face and tell him to go where you can go now!’
“You remember that, don’t you, Rockamore?” Blaine interrupted himself to ask sharply. “Do you also recall your reply?––‘How about poor Herbert Armstrong? His wife––’”
“It’s a lie! A d––d lie!” cried Rockamore. “I was not in this room that night! Such a conversation never occurred! Who told you of this? Who dares accuse me?”
“I do!” A clear, flute-like voice, resonant in its firmness, rang out from behind him as he spoke, and he wheeled abruptly, to find Anita standing with her slender form outlined against the dark, rich velvet of the curtains. Her head was thrown back, her eyes blazing; and as she faced him, she slowly raised her arm and pointed a steady finger at the recoiling figure. “I accuse you, Bertrand Rockamore, of the murder of my father! It was I who heard your conversation here in this room; it was I who found the vial which contained the poison you used when your arguments and threats failed! I am not mistaken––I knew that I could never be mistaken if I heard that voice again, shaken, as it was that night, with rage and defiance––and fear! I knew that I should hear it again some time, and all these weeks I have listened for it, until this moment. Mr. Blaine, this is the man!”
