He stopped and polished his eye-glass.
"The irony of it! . . . I didn't even guess that anything had happened to the dear fellow,—how could I? I drove, all unsuspecting of the tragedy, to a Turkish bath, and remained there the night. The next morning I read of the murder; and in the later editions I saw the mention of my car. It was then I became—shall I say worried? But no. 'Worried' is a misleading word. Let me say, rather, that I became aware of the false position I might be placed in if the car were traced to me. So I drove it to the garage and paid the man to say nothing of its whereabouts, lest its discovery confuse the issue of Alvin's death."
One might have thought, from his tone and the self-righteous way he looked at Markham, that he had bribed the garage-man wholly out of consideration for the District Attorney and the police.
"Why didn't you continue on your trip?" asked Markham. "That would have made the discovery of the car even less likely."
Pfyfe adopted an air of compassionate surprise.
"With my dearest friend foully murdered? How could one have the heart to seek diversion at such a sad moment? . . . I returned home, and informed Mrs. Pfyfe that my car had broken down."
"You might have driven home in your car, it seems to me," observed Markham.
Pfyfe offered a look of infinite forbearance for the other's inspection, and took a deep sigh, which conveyed the impression that, though he could not sharpen the world's perceptions, he at least could mourn for its deplorable lack of understanding.
