"Well," replied Viner. "I'd an idea at the moment, and I've had it since, that I'd seen this man before. Something in his face was familiar. The only thing I can think of is this: I potter round old bookshops and curiosity-shops a good deal--I may have seen this young fellow on some occasion of that sort."
"Anyway," suggested Drillford, glancing over the particulars which he had written down, "you'd know him again if you saw him?"
"Oh, certainly!" asserted Viner. "I should know him anywhere."
"Then that's all we need trouble you with now, sir," said Drillford. "The next business will be--tomorrow."
Viner walked slowly out of the police-station and still more slowly homeward. When he reached the first lamp, he drew out his watch. Half-past twelve! Just two hours ago he had been in his own comfortable library, smiling at Miss Penkridge's ideas about the very matters into one of which he was now plunged. He would not have been surprised if he had suddenly awoke, to find that all this was a bad dream, induced by the evening's conversation. But just then he came to the passage in which the murder had been committed. A policeman was on guard at the terrace end--and Viner, rather than hear any more of the matter, hastened past him and made a circuitous way to Markendale Square.
He let himself into his house as quietly as possible, and contrary to taste and custom, went into the dining-room, switched on the electric light and helped himself to a stiff glass of brandy and soda at the sideboard. When the mixture was duly prepared, he forgot to drink it. He stood by the sideboard, the glass in his hand, his eyes staring at vacancy. Nor did he move when a very light foot stole down the stairs, and Miss Penkridge, in wraps and curl-papers, looked round the side of the door.
"Heavens above, Richard!" she exclaimed, "What is the matter! I wondered if you were burglars! Half-past twelve!"
Viner suddenly became aware of the glass which he was unconsciously holding. He lifted it to his lips, wondering whatever it was that made his mouth feel so dry. And when he had taken a big gulp, and then spoke, his voice--to himself--sounded just as queer as his tongue had been feeling.
"You were right!" he said suddenly. "There are queerer, stranger affairs in life than one fancies! And I--I've been pitchforked--thrown--clean into the middle of things! I!"