“Without seeing Dora?” I inquired.
“She’s away in the country somewhere,” he snapped. It was evident that he was entirely ignorant of the dire misfortune that had befallen her.
“My warning was justified,” I said quietly. “That a warrant is out for your arrest I am in a position to affirm, and—”
“A warrant issued on your own information, I presume,” he interrupted with a sneer.
“I have given no information,” I replied. “I obtained the truth from the detective who held the warrant, and sent word to you immediately.”
“Extremely kind, I’m sure. You’ve done all you can to prejudice me, and now it seems that for some unaccountable reason you have altered your tactics and are looking after my interests. I place no faith in such friends.”
“My tactics, as you are pleased to term them, are at least legitimate,” I answered, annoyed. “I deny, however, that I have ever acted in opposition to your interests. During these past weeks of anxiety and suspicion I have always defended you, and show my readiness to still do so by contriving your escape thus far.”
“Bah! What have I to fear?” he exclaimed, turning on me defiantly.
I looked straight into his face, and with sternness said—“You fear arrest for the murder of Gilbert Sternroyd.” He frowned, and his eyes were downcast. There was a long silence, but no answer passed his tight-drawn lips. Presently I spoke again, saying—
“Now listen, Bethune. We have been friends, and I regret to the bottom of my heart that it is no longer possible under these circumstances to again extend to you the hand of friendship.”