“And you won’t say that word?” asked Mallalieu.
“I shan’t! Why? Because it’s not necessary. Why!” demanded Harborough, laughing with an expresssion of genuine contempt. “What is there against me? Naught! As I say, there’s law in this country—there’s such a thing as a jury. Do you believe that any jury would convict a man on what you’ve got? It’s utter nonsense!”
The constable who had come down from the Shawl with Bent and Brereton had for some time been endeavouring to catch the eye of the superintendent. Succeeding in his attempts at last, he beckoned that official into a quiet corner of the room, and turning his back on the group near the fireplace, pulled something out of his pocket. The two men bent over it, and the constable began to talk in whispers.
Mallalieu meanwhile was eyeing Harborough in his stealthy, steady fashion. He looked as if he was reckoning him up.
“Well, my lad,” he observed at last. “You’re making a mistake. If you can’t or won’t tell what you’ve been doing with yourself between eight last night and six this morning, why, then—”
The superintendent came back, holding something in his hand. He, too, looked at Harborough.
“Will you hold up your left foot?—turn the sole up,” he asked. “Just to see—something.”
Harborough complied, readily, but with obvious scornful impatience. And when he had shown the sole of the left foot, the superintendent opened his hand and revealed a small crescent-shaped bit of bright steel.
“That’s off the toe of your boot, Harborough,” he said. “You know it is! And it’s been picked up—just now, as it were—where this affair happened. You must have lost it there during the last few hours, because it’s quite bright—not a speck of rust on it, you see. What do you say to that, now?”
“Naught!” retorted Harborough, defiantly. “It is mine, of course—I noticed it was working loose yesterday. And if it was picked up in that wood, what then? I passed through there last night on my way to—where I was going. God—you don’t mean to say you’d set a man’s life on bits o’things like that!”
Mallalieu beckoned the superintendent aside and talked with him. Almost at once he himself turned away and left the room, and the superintendent came back to the group by the fireplace.
“Well, there’s no help for it, Harborough,” he said. “We shall have to detain you—and I shall have to charge you, presently. It can’t be helped—and I hope you’ll be able to clear yourself.”
“I expected nothing else,” replied Harborough. “I’m not blaming you—nor anybody. Mr. Bent,” he continued, turning to where Bent and Brereton stood a little apart. “I’d be obliged to you if you’d do something for me. Go and tell my daughter about this, if you please! You see, I came straight down here—I didn’t go into my house when I got back. If you’d just step up and tell her—and bid her not be afraid—there’s naught to be afraid of, as she’ll find—as everybody’ll find.”
“Certainly,” said Bent. “I’ll go at once.” He tapped Brereton on the arm, and led him out into the street. “Well?” he asked, when they were outside. “What do you think of that, now?”
“That man gives one all the suggestion of innocence,” remarked Brereton, thoughtfully, “and from a merely superficial observation of him, I, personally, should say he is innocent. But then, you know, I’ve known the most hardened and crafty criminals assume an air of innocence, and keep it up, to the very end. However, we aren’t concerned about that just now—the critical point here, for Harborough, at any rate, is the evidence against him.”
“And what do you think of that?” asked Bent.
“There’s enough to warrant his arrest,” answered Brereton, “and he’ll be committed on it, and he’ll go for trial. All that’s certain—unless he’s a sensible man, and tells what he was doing with himself between eight and ten o’clock last night.”
“Ah, and why doesn’t he?” said Bent. “He must have some good reason. I wonder if his daughter can persuade him?”
“Isn’t that his daughter coming towards us?” inquired Brereton.
Bent glanced along the road and saw Avice Harborough at a little distance, hastening in their direction and talking earnestly to a middle-aged man who was evidently listening with grave concern to what she said.
“Yes, that’s she,” he replied, “and that’s Northrop with her—the man that Mallalieu was playing cards with last night. She’s governess to Northrop’s two younger children—I expect she’s heard about her father, and has been to get Northrop to come down with her—he’s a magistrate.”
Avice listened with ill-concealed impatience while Bent delivered his message. He twice repeated Harborough’s injunction that she was not to be afraid, and her impatience increased.
“I’m not afraid,” she answered. “That is, afraid of nothing but my father’s obstinacy! I know him. And I know that if he’s said he won’t tell anything about his whereabouts last night, he won’t! And if you want to help him—as you seem to do—you must recognize that.”
“Wouldn’t he tell you?” suggested Brereton.
The girl shook her head.
“Once or twice a year,” she answered, “he goes away for a night, like that, and I never know—never have known—where he goes. There’s some mystery about it—I know there is. He won’t tell—he’ll let things go to the last, and even then he won’t tell. You won’t be able to help him that way—there’s only one way you can help.”
“What way?” asked Bent.
“Find the murderer!” exclaimed Avice with a quick flash of her eyes in Brereton’s direction. “My father is as innocent as I am—find the man who did it and clear him that way. Don’t wait for what
