People in the twentieth century
don't indulge in superstition to that extent, Sir Nigel; or, at least,
if they do, they let their reason govern their actions as far as
possible. It's a tall story at best, if you'll forgive me for saying so."
Merriton's face went a dull, sultry red. His eyes flamed.
"Then you don't believe me?" he said, impatiently.
Cleek raised a hand.
"I don't say that for one moment," he replied. "What I say is: 'Would a
judge and jury believe you?' That is the question. And my answer to it
is, 'No.' You've had every provocation to take Dacre Wynne's life, so far
as I can learn, every provocation, that is, that a man of unsound
mentality who would stoop to murder could have to justify himself in his
own eyes. Things look exceedingly black against you, Sir Nigel. You can
swear to this statement as far as your part in it is concerned, Doctor
Bartholomew?"
"Absolutely," said the doctor, though plainly showing that he felt it was
no business of the supposed Mr. Headland's.
"Well, that's good.
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