One other thing,
however, pointed at him in a worse manner. A short sword, or very
long knife, had been drawn out of his elegant walking-stick, and
lay in front of him upon the stones. It did not, however, appear to
be bloody.
The police had already pushed into the centre with their ponderous
omnipotence, and even as they did so, Rupert Grant sprang forward
with his incontrollable and intolerable secret.
"That is the man, constable," he shouted, pointing at the battered
lieutenant. "He is a suspicious character. He did the murder."
"There's been no murder done, sir," said the policeman, with his
automatic civility. "The poor man's only hurt. I shall only be
able to take the names and addresses of the men in the scuffle
and have a good eye kept on them."
"Have a good eye kept on that one," said Rupert, pale to the lips,
and pointing to the ragged Keith.
"All right, sir," said the policeman unemotionally, and went the
round of the people present, collecting the addresses. When he had
completed his task the dusk had fallen and most of the people not
immediately connected with the examination had gone away. He still
found, however, one eager-faced stranger lingering on the
outskirts of the affair. It was Rupert Grant.
"Constable," he said, "I have a very particular reason for asking
you a question.
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