Save for a slight light of triumph which seemed to
flicker in his close-set eyes, and play occasionally about his narrow
lips, there was nothing to show in his demeanour that such an extremely
large pebble as his master's conviction for murder had caused the ripples
to break on the smooth surface of his life's tenor.
Cleek blew a cloud of smoke into the air and swung one leg across the
other with a sort of devil-may-care air that was part of his Headland
make-up in this piece.
"Well," said he, off-handedly, "all I can say is, I wouldn't like to be
in your master's shoes, Borkins. He's guilty--not a doubt of it; and
he'll certainly be called to justice."
"You think so?" An undercurrent of eagerness ran in Borkins's tone.
"Most assuredly I do. Not a chance for him--poor beggar. He'll possibly
swing for it, too! Pleasant conjecture before lunch, I must say. And
we'll have it all cold if we don't look sharp about it, Lake, old chap.
Come along."
... They spent the afternoon in discussing the case bit by bit, probing
into it, tearing it to ribbons, analysing, comparing, rehearsing once
more the scene of that fateful night when Dacre Wynne had crossed the
Fens, and, according to everyone's but Borkins's evidence, had never
returned.
Pages:
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201