“All the same, I’m afraid you’ll have to cut it out—for your own sake.”
“What do you mean?”
Anthony looked at him for a full minute before he said slowly:
“Do you know that they’ve found the revolver, the one Michael was shot with? Do you know where they found it? In your suit-case.”
“What?”
Isaacstein almost leapt from his chair. His face was frenzied.
“What are you saying? What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you.”
Very obligingly, Anthony narrated the occurrences in connection with the finding of the revolver. As he spoke the other’s face assumed a greyish tinge of absolute terror.
“But it’s false,” he screamed out, as Anthony finished. “I never put it there. I know nothing about it. It is a plot.”
“Don’t excite yourself,” said Anthony soothingly. “If that’s the case you'll easily be able to prove it.”
“Prove it? How can I prove it?”
“If I were you,” said Anthony gently, “I'd come to Chimneys to-night.”
Isaacstein looked at him doubtfully.
“You advise it?”
Anthony leant forward and whispered to him. The financier fell back in amazement, staring at him.
“You actually mean—”
“Come and see,” said Anthony.
207
