He was looking through the window, and Robinson considered
that the question showed a lack of interest in his statement, though he
dared not hint at such a thing.
"He's a Mr. Elkin, sir," he said. "As I was saying--"
"How does Mr. Elkin make a living?" broke in the other.
"He breeds hacks and polo ponies," said Robinson, rather shortly.
"Ah, I thought so. Well, go on with your story."
Robinson was irritated, and justly so. His superior had put him off his
"line." He took it up again sharply, leaving out of court for the moment
the various rills of evidence which, in his opinion, united into a
swift-moving stream.
"The fact is, sir," he blurted out, "there is an uncommonly strong case
against Mr. John Menzies Grant."
"Phew!" whistled the superintendent.
"I think you'll agree with me, sir, when you hear what I've gathered
about him one way and another."
Robinson was sure of his audience now. Quite unconsciously, he had
applied the chief canon of realism in art. He had conveyed his effect by
one striking note. The rest of the picture was quite subsidiary to the
bold splurge of color evoked by actually naming the man he suspected of
murdering Adelaide Melhuish.
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