Leroux sank upon the
chesterfield, rubbing his fingers up and down his palms with a
curious nervous movement and glancing at the dead woman, and at Exel,
alternately, in a mechanical, regular fashion, pathetic to behold.
Mr. Exel, tapping his boot with the head of his inverted cane, was
staring fixedly at the doctor.
"Here you are, Leroux," said Cumberly; "drink this up, and let us
arrange our facts in decent order before we--"
"Phone for the police?" concluded Exel, his gaze upon the last speaker.
Leroux drank the brandy at a gulp and put down the glass upon a little
persian coffee table with a hand which he had somehow contrived to
steady.
"You are keen on the official forms, Exel?" he said, with a wry smile.
"Please accept my apology for my recent--er--outburst, but picture this
thing happening in your place!"
"I cannot," declared Exel, bluntly.
"You lack imagination," said Cumberly. "Take a whisky and soda, and help
me to search the flat."
"Search the flat!"
The physician raised a forefinger, forensically.
"Since you, Exel, if not actually in the building, must certainly have
been within sight of the street entrance at the moment of the crime, and
since Leroux and I descended the stair and met you on the landing, it is
reasonable to suppose that the assassin can only be in one place: HERE!"
"HERE!" cried Exel and Leroux, together.
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