Pfyfe looked up with a hurt look.
"I've been deeply wronged," he complained sadly. "I gave the man fifty dollars."
"I am glad you admit the fact so readily," returned Markham. "You knew, by the newspapers, of course, that your machine was seen outside Benson's house the night he was shot."
"Why else should I have paid so liberally to have its presence in New York kept secret?" His tone indicated that he was pained at the other's obtuseness.
"In that case, why did you keep it in the city at all?" asked Markham. "You could have driven it back to Long Island."
Pfyfe shook his head sorrowfully, a look of commiseration in his eyes. Then he leaned forward with an air of benign patience:—he would be gentle with this dull-witted District Attorney, like a fond teacher with a backward child, and would strive to lead him out of the tangle of his uncertainties.
"I am a married man, Mr. Markham." He pronounced the fact as if some special virtue attached to it. "I started on my trip for the Catskills Thursday after dinner, intending to stop a day in New York to make my adieus to someone residing here. I arrived quite late—after midnight—and decided to call on Alvin. But when I drove up, the house was dark. So, without even ringing the bell, I walked to Pietro's in Forty-third Street to get a night-cap,—I keep a bit of my own pinch-bottle Haig and Haig there,—but, alas! the place was closed, and I strolled back to my car. . . . To think, that while I was away poor Alvin was shot!"
