Part 18 (2/2)
”My dear sir----” Judge Wilton began.
”Let me finis.h.!.+” Hastings spoke indignantly. ”I'm no fool; I know when I'm trifled with. Understand me: I don't say you got that letter, Mr.
Webster; I don't say you ever saw it; I don't know the truth of it--yet.
I do say you've deliberately refused to respond to my requests for cooperation. I do say you'd prefer to have me out of this case altogether. I know it, although I'm not clear as to your motives--or yours, judge. You were anxious enough, you said when we talked at Sloane's door, for me to go on with it. If you're still of that opinion, I advise you to advise your friend here to be more outspoken with me.
I'll give you this straight: if I can't be corn, I won't be shucks. But I intend to be corn. I'm going to conduct this investigation as I see fit. I won't be turned aside; I won't play second to your lead!”
He was fine in his intensity. Astounded by his vehemence, the two men he addressed were silent, meeting his keen and steady scrutiny.
He smiled, and, as he did so, they were aware, with an emotion like shock, that his whole face mirrored forth a genuine and warm self-satisfaction. The thing was as plain as if he had spoken it aloud: he had gotten out of the interview what he wanted. Their recognition of this fact increased their blankness.
”You know my position now,” he added, no longer denunciatory. ”If you change your minds, that will be great! I want all the help I can get.
And, take it from me, young man, you can't afford to throw away any you can get.”
”Threats?”
Webster had shot out the one word with cool insolence before the judge could begin a conciliatory remark. The change in the lawyer's manner was so unpleasant, the insult so palpably deliberate, that Hastings could not mistake the purpose back of it. Webster regarded him out of burning eyes.
”No; not threats,” Hastings answered him in a voice that was cold as ice. ”I think you understand what I mean. I know too little, and I suspect too much, to drop my search for the murderer of that woman.”
Judge Wilton tried to placate him:
”I don't see what your complaint is, Hastings. We----”
A smothered, half-articulate cry from Webster interrupted him. Hastings, first to spring forward, caught the falling man by his arm, breaking the force of the fall. He had clutched the edge of the piano as his legs gave under him. That, and the quickness of the detective, made the fall more like a gentle sliding to the floor.
Save for the one, gurgling outcry, no word came from him. He was unconscious, his colourless lips again twisted to that poor semblance of smiling defiance which Hastings had noticed at the beginning of the interview.
X
THE WHISPERED CONFERENCE
Dr. Garnet, reaching Sloanehurst half an hour later, found Webster in complete collapse. He declared that for at least several days the sick man must be kept quiet. He could not be moved to his apartment in Was.h.i.+ngton, nor could he be subjected to questioning about anything.
”That is,” he explained, ”for three or four days--possibly longer. He's critically ill. But for my knowledge of the terrific shock he's sustained as a result of the murder, I'd be inclined to say he'd broken down after a long, steady nervous strain.
”I'll have a nurse out to look after him. Miss Sloane has volunteered, but she has troubles of her own.”
Judge Wilton took the news to Hastings, who was on the front porch, whittling, waiting to see Lucille before returning to Was.h.i.+ngton.
”I think Garnet's right,” Wilton added. ”I thought, even before last night, Berne acted as if he'd been worn out. And you handled him rather roughly. That sort of questioning, tantalizing, keeping a man on tenterhooks, knocks the metal out of a high-strung temperament like his.
I don't mind telling you it had me pretty well worked up.”
”I'm sorry it knocked him out,” Hastings said. ”All I wanted was the facts. He wasn't frank with me.”
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