“Might as well,” agreed Lisner in a tone that tried to be contemptuous but trembled.  “We’re wasting time here.”

“Lisner,” said the Major in his gentlest tone, “be well advised and leave my daughter be.”

“And if I don’t?” sneered Lisner.  He had no real desire to question Stella, but welcomed the change of venue as a diversion from his late indiscretion.  “If, in the performance of my duty, I put a few civil questions to Miss Vorhis—­in the presence of her father, mind you—­then what?”

“But you won’t!” said the Major softly.

“Do you know, Sheriff, I think the Major has the right idea?” said Pringle.  “We won’t bother the young lady.”

“Who’s going to stop me?”

Anastacio, in his turn, brought his chair to the floor, at the same time unclasping his hands from behind his head.

“I’ll do that little thing, Sheriff,” he announced mildly.  “Miss Vorhis has already told us that she has not seen Foy since yesterday noon.  That is quite sufficient.”

Silence.

“This makes me fidgety.  Somebody say something, quick—­anything!” begged Pringle.  “All right, then; I will.  Let’s go back—­we’ve dropped a stitch.  That goes about me being a liar and a damned one, Sheriff; but I’m hurt to have you think I’m a cur-dog.  You’re the sheriff, doin’ your duty, as you so aptly observed.  And you’ve done took my gun away.  But if bein’ a cur-dog should happen to vex me—­honest, Sheriff, I’m that sensitive that I’ll tell you now—­not hissing or gritting or gnashing my teeth—­just telling you—­the first time I meet you in a strictly private and unofficial way I’m goin’ to remold you closer to my heart’s desire!”

“You brazen hussy!  You know you lied!”

“You’re still harpin’ on that, Sheriff?  That doesn’t make it any easier to be a cur-dog.  How did you know I lied?  You say so, mighty positive—­but what are your reasons?  Why don’t you tell your associates?  There is an honest man in this room.  I am not sure there are not two—­”

Anastacio’s eyes again removed themselves from the ceiling.

“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.”