“There’s a point I wanted to ask you about the will,” he said. “When did you discover that your father was making a fresh will?” “When he . . . Good God, what do you mean? What are you suggesting?” Fratten had sprung to his feet and his dark eyes blazed out of a white face. “Are you trying to make out that I killed my father? You damned swine! You can take yourself straight to hell!” He stood for a moment glaring down at Poole, then swung on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The detective rose slowly to his feet. A glow of satisfaction was spreading over him. This was something better than he had hoped. That second correction, within a bare minute of the first, was unmistakable. Fratten had begun automatically to answer the question about his knowledge of the new will, had pulled himself up with a jerk and, to cover the slip, had put up a display of righteous indignation. He had been extraordinarily quick, too, at picking up the implication of Poole’s question. It was obvious, of course, but only a clever man could have picked it up so instantaneously. Undoubtedly the plot was thickening. Poole picked up his hat and had taken a step or two towards the door when it opened and Ryland Fratten came back into the room. His face was still white but his eyes were calm. “I’ve come to apologize,” he said. “I had no right to say that to you—I didn’t really mean it to you personally—of course you’re only doing your duty. Will you please forgive me?” When Poole left the club a minute or two later, most of the satisfaction had died out of him. Instead, he had a curious sensation of shame at ever having felt satisfaction. CHAPTER IX Silence Thinking over his interview with Ryland Fratten, Poole felt rather uncertain as to what deduction to draw from it as to his character. Undoubtedly he was a much more intelligent—and consequently a potentially more dangerous—man than he had expected to find. On the other hand, without any practical justification, Poole realized that he rather liked what he had seen of him. Obviously, he must not build on such slender material and he cast about in his mind for the best means of studying Fratten’s character more closely. His sister, Inez, was out of the question; Mangane was possible, but Poole did not quite like the idea of pumping him. Finally it occurred to him that his own past history might provide a key to the problem. In his undergraduate days, and to a lesser extent as a young barrister, he had not been above a little mild stage-door flirtation, during which he had made the acquaintance of various stage-door keepers, and especially that of Mr. Gabb of the “Inanity.” It was probable that Mr. Gabb knew the life-stories of more lights of the musical-comedy stage, together with their attendant moths, than any man in London. It was more than probable that he would know Ryland Fratten, and quite likely the history of his entanglement. Anyhow it was worth trying.