"If you mean me--and somehow I am quite clear as to that--"

"I mean Mr. Breslin."

"Oh, him--of course!" said Anastacio in a shocked voice. "Breslin, by
all means, for the one you were sure of. But the second man, the
one you had hopes of--who should that be but me? I thank you. I am
touched. I am myself indifferent honest, as Shakespere puts it."

The sheriff licked his dry lips.

"If you think I am going to stay here to be insulted--"

"You are!" taunted John Wesley Pringle. "You'll stay right here. What?
Leave me here to tell what I have to say to an honest man and a half?
Impossible! You'll not let me out of your sight."

"My amateur Ananias," interrupted Anastacio dispassionately, "you are,
unintentionally, perhaps, doing me half of a grave injustice. In this
particular instance--for this day and date only--I am as pure as a
new-mown hay. To prevent all misapprehension let me say now that I
never thought Foy killed Dick Marr."

"In heaven's name, why?" demanded Breslin.

"My honest but thick-skulled friend, let me put in my oar," implored
the Major. "Let me show you that Matt Lisner never thought Foy was
guilty. Foy said last night, before the killing, that he was coming up
here, didn't he?"