"Is it any of my business," asked Markham quietly, "that the bullet which killed your brother was fired from your gun?"
The Major looked at him steadily, his mouth a sneer.
"That's the kind of double-crossing you do!—invite me here to arrest me, and then ask me questions to incriminate myself when I'm unaware of your suspicions. A fine dirty sport you are!"
Vance leaned forward.
"You fool!" His voice was very low, but it cut like a whip. "Can't you see he's your friend, and is asking you these questions in a last desp'rate hope that you're not guilty?"
The Major swung round on him hotly.
"Keep out of this—you damned sissy!"
"Oh, quite," murmured Vance.
"And as for you,"—he pointed a quivering finger at Markham—"I'll make you sweat for this! . . ."
Vituperation and profanity poured from the man. His nostrils were expanded, his eyes blazing. His wrath seemed to surpass all human bounds: he was like a person in an apoplectic fit—contorted, repulsive, insensate.
Markham sat through it patiently, his head resting on his hands, his eyes closed. When, at length, the Major's rage became inarticulate, he looked up and nodded to Heath. It was the signal the detective had been watching for.
But before Heath could make a move, the Major sprang to his feet. With the motion of rising he swung his body swiftly about, and brought his fist against Heath's face with terrific impact. The Ser-
