“Good morning, Addison,” he said, having greeted Isobel in a perfunctory fashion which I assumed to be accounted for by my unwelcome presence.  “The men of your Fleet Street tribe have conspired to hang me, I see.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Coverly,” I said bruskly; “this misapprehension is bound to arise if you decline to give any account of your movements.”

“But it is an outrage!” cried Coverly hotly.  “What the devil do I know about Marcus’s death?”

“I am perfectly convinced that you know nothing whatever; but then I have known you for many years.  The ‘Fleet Street tribe’ to whom you refer merely regard you as a unit of our rather large population.  In a case of this kind, Coverly, all men are equal.”

Whilst I had been delivering myself of this somewhat priggish speech—­designed, I may add, in self-defense, to spur Coverly to a rejoinder which might throw some light upon the mystery—­he had regarded me with an expression of ever increasing dislike.  I noted that there were shadows under his eyes, and that he was in a highly nervous and excited condition.  He had slept but little I judged during the last forty-eight hours and had possibly had recourse to stimulants to enable him to face the new trials which arose with every day.

“I don’t feel called upon,” he said angrily, “to give an account of my movements to every policeman who cares to inquire.  I know nothing whatever about the matter.  I have said so, and I am not accustomed to have my word doubted.”

“My dear Coverly,” said I, “you must be perfectly well aware that sooner or later you will have to relinquish this heroic pose.  Will you allow no one to advise you?  You will have to answer the coroner, and if you persist in this extraordinary refusal to give a simple answer to a simple question, surely you realize that the matter will be transferred to a higher tribunal?”

“Oh, I told you that they had hanged me in Fleet Street already, Isobel!” cried Coverly, with a burst of unmirthful laughter.

But (and no man could have construed the thing favorably to Coverly) to my anger and amazement he added: 

“Let them do it!  I’ll speak if I choose, but not otherwise!”

That I was annoyed with the young fool already, my remarks to him, which had transgressed every code of good taste, must sufficiently have shown.  But I had hoped to provoke him to a declaration which would clear his name from the shadow which was settling darkly upon it, and which would raise that shadow from the girl who stood beside him, watching me with a sort of reproachful look in her dark eyes.

Now I recognized that I could remain no longer and keep the peace, therefore: 

“Perhaps it is time that I went about my own business,” I said, conjuring up a smile, although it must have been a dreary one, “and ceased to interfere with the affairs of other people.  Good-by, Isobel.  Anything I can do, you know you may command.  Good-by, Coverly.  I am deeply sorry about this business.”