Sir John Bunnery evidently read his thoughts. “And now, young man, there is something else you want to say to me, isn’t there?”
This was not at all the way in which Ellery had expected to conduct the interview. He had hoped to discover what he wanted casually, in the course of conversation, without giving Sir John, who was, after all, a friend of Woodman’s, any hint of what he wanted to know. But Sir John was manifestly a man whom it was not easy to pump. Ellery was wondering what to reply when the old lawyer spoke again—
“I have refused Woodman that advance. Is that what you wanted to know?”
Ellery said that it was not, and then realised that he had admitted wanting to know something.
“Well, what is it then?” said Sir John.
There was nothing for it but either to get out of the room without the information that was needed or to make Sir John Bunnery, at least in part, a confidant. Ellery rapidly chose the latter course, and elected to go to work the most direct way.
“I want to know precisely what Carter Woodman said to you when he asked you to lend him that money. Do you know what he wanted it for?”
“You want to know a lot, young man. And why should I tell you all this?”
“Because Carter Woodman is a murderer.”
Those small eyes looked at him very suddenly. “H’m,” said Sir John, “and so you think Woodman killed those two fellows at Liskeard House. Is that it, eh? I dare say they were a good riddance.”
“I must say you take it very calmly, Sir John.”
“In my business, young man, we get used to taking things calmly. Murder is not an uncommon crime.”
“But I understood Carter Woodman was a friend of yours.”
“If you were my age, young man, and in my profession, you wouldn’t be surprised even if one of your friends committed a murder. But, he’s no friend of mine—now. Carter Woodman would be a good riddance himself. I could have put him in prison for trying to raise money on false pretences.”
“Sir John, you will tell me what you know. I have almost certain proof that Woodman did commit murder; but your evidence may be indispensable.”
“In that case, I should naturally give it at the proper time—to the police. Why should I give it to you, young man? I never heard of you before. Who are you?”
“Only a friend of Sir Vernon’s and of Miss Cowper’s. You probably know my guardian—Mr. Lucas. Miss Cowper and I have been working on the case together.”
“Oh, you have, have you? Playing the amateur detective, eh?”
“We’ve found out any amount the police don’t know, anyhow.”
“Yes. Amateur detectives always do—in the novels. I prefer to say what I have to say at the proper time to the police. It saves complications.”
“But, Sir John, the police are absolutely wrong about this. If you will tell me what you know, I will undertake that the police shall be fully informed within the next few days.”
“And why not now, young man? Because you want to do it all yourself. Is that it?”
“Perhaps it is, and perhaps it isn’t, Sir John. But you know best. Let’s telephone to the police to send someone round here, and you can tell them and me together.”
“And have the police worrying round here all day till heavens knows when. No, thank you, young man.” Sir John paused, and then went on suddenly. “I suppose you’re going to marry that Cowper girl.”
“I don’t think that is any business of yours, Sir John. But I have no objection to telling you that we are engaged to be married.”
“Tut, tut, don’t lose your temper, boy. I’m just going to tell you all about it. Woodman came to see me the other night at my club—no, not the Byron: Foster’s, at the corner of Clarges Street. That was at nine o’clock, by my appointment. He was with me for an hour, discussing that loan you seem to know all about. He told me just what I told Sir Vernon in my letter, that Walter Brooklyn had made a will in his favour, and that they were prepared to sign their joint names to a bill. He said that made the loan perfectly safe, on the strength of their expectations from Sir Vernon. That was all he told me.”
Sir John stopped.
“Is that all you know?” asked Ellery, with an air of disappointment.
“No, of course, it’s not all. You just wait a minute, young man. Don’t be impatient.” Sir John glared for a few seconds at his visitor and, then continued: “I may say that Woodman already owed me a considerable sum, in connection with a business transaction. So I thought it wise to make a few inquiries about him in the city, and I may tell you, young man, that the fellow’s bankrupt—positively bankrupt—a shilling in the pound affair or something like it. Speculation, of course. He can’t hold out for more than a few days. There are men on the Stock Exchange who know that for a fact.”
“So that Woodman would be very likely to take some desperate step in order to retrieve his fortunes?”
“Such as coming to me and trying to raise money under false pretences. The man’s a damned scoundrel,” said Sir John.
“Surely murder is worse than raising money on false pretences, Sir John.”
“Oh, is it, young man? Of course, you know all about it. I only know that the fellow ought to be locked up. That’s enough for me. I might have lent him the money as a friend.”
“But surely, Sir John, when you found out all this about him, you wouldn’t have considered lending him the money.”
“Of course, I did not consider it. Not for a
