Speaking in that tone and
without my eye glasses I must have made an astonishing contrast to the
Thomas Hobhouse he had last seen that morning at breakfast.
"Read that," I commanded.
He took the pocket book and I watched him closely. I saw his eyebrows
rise as he read.
"What's all this about?" he asked.
"It is Bolton's last entry in his note book before he was murdered, and
it means that O'Brien is either still in this island, or that a
confederate of his is playing traitor in his place, and that one of the
two has just committed murder. It is quite impossible that you don't know
something of this!"
His blue eyes now had considerably more anger than guilt in them. In
fact I was bound to admit that he looked a fine upstanding man, with
his grey moustache, high colour, and an air of unmistakable indignation
in his face.
"Who the devil are you?" he demanded.
"I may tell you that I am _not_ Thomas Sylvester Hobhouse, and that I
have never taken liquor enough in my life to hurt myself. I am here to
investigate certain things that have been going on in this island, and
I'll put one question to you straight, Dr. Rendall. You remember being
visited by a certain man Merton last August, When you heard him
approaching your house why did you pull down your blind?"
That shot went straight home.
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