You've got Chester's gun—you took it! And you've got a key to the house—easy enough for you to have one made. That's how you got in."
Von Blon shook his head sadly and smiled with rueful tolerance. It was an embarrassing moment, but he carried it off well.
"Come, Rex," he said quietly, like a person speaking to a refractory child. "You've said enough"
"Have I!" cried the youth, his eyes gleaming unnaturally. "You knew Chester had the revolver. You went camping with him the summer he got it—he told me so the other day, after Julia was killed." His beady little eyes seemed to stare from his head; a spasm shook his emaciated body; and his fingers again began worrying the hem of his jacket.
Von Blon stepped swiftly forward and, putting a hand on each of his shoulders, shook him.
"That'll do, Rex!" The words were a sharp command. "If you carry on this way, we'll have to lock you up in an institution."
The threat was uttered in what I considered an unnecessarily brutal tone; but it had the desired effect. A haunting fear showed in Rex's eyes. He seemed suddenly to go limp, and he docilely permitted Von Blon to lead him from the room.
"A sweet specimen, that Rex," commented Vance. "Not a person one would choose for a boon companion. Aggravated macrocephalia—cortical irritation. But I say, Sergeant; really, y' know, you shouldn't have prodded the lad so."
Heath grunted.
"You can't tell me that guy don't know something. And you can bet your sweet life I'm going to search his room damn good for that gun."
