“There was a complication that night. Remember the cap of yours that Step threw over Mrs. Benton’s fence?”
“I remember it—but I never saw it again.”
“Well, we found it outside the club. What we thought about it was another of the mistakes. Not till a good while later did we learn that Mrs. Benton had put it in her rubbish can, and somebody prowling through the alley had carried it off.”
“Groche—sure’s you’re a foot high!” commented Lon. “He’s always skulkin’ through the back-streets. Pinched it, didn’t you, Peter?”
But Groche, though stirred by Lon’s toe to make answer, merely growled inarticulately.
“Well, I think we can safely assume Groche did take it,” Sam continued. “Even at first the Shark raised a doubt——”
“Doubt!” broke in the Shark. “Huh! Don’t you fellows know an absolute demonstration when you see one? What I proved was that that stone was thrown by a grown man, and a strong man, to boot!”
“Well, it’s all part of the chain,” said Sam. “One thing is linked with the next. If I hadn’t shot the Major, Groche wouldn’t have had a grudge against me, you fellows wouldn’t have been mixed up in the trouble, we wouldn’t have had reason to make a trip to the camp, we wouldn’t be here storm bound. And—and”—he glanced at Orkney—“and things that have happened wouldn’t have happened.”
A readier fellow, a more tactful fellow, might have found in Sam’s words something very like an overture for full reconciliation. More or less clearly everybody understood the situation. All eyes were upon Orkney, some openly, some covertly; but even in the flickering light of the fire Tom’s face bore a curiously set and stolid expression.
Poke relieved the tension.