fact. I am not accusing Miss St. Clair of having anything to do with the affair. I'm merely endeavoring to get some light on your own connection with it."
The Captain studied Markham with an expression that clearly indicated he doubted these assurances. Finally he set his mouth, and announced with determination:
"I haven't anything more to say on the subject, sir."
"You knew, didn't you," continued Markham, "that Miss St. Clair dined with Benson at the Marseilles on the night he was shot?"
"What of it?" retorted Leacock sullenly.
"And you knew, didn't you, that they left the restaurant at midnight, and that Miss St. Clair did not reach home until after one?"
A strange look came into the man's eyes. The ligaments of his neck tightened, and he took a deep, resolute breath. But he neither glanced at the District Attorney nor spoke.
"You know, of course," pursued Markham's monotonous voice, "that Benson was shot at half past twelve?"
He waited; and for a whole minute there was silence in the room.
"You have nothing more to say, Captain?" he asked at length; "—no further explanations to give me?"
Leacock did not answer. He sat gazing imperturbably ahead of him; and it was evident he had sealed his lips for the time being.
Markham rose.
