And something, a voice to which I would not listen, urged: "Suppose they do not choose to believe what you explain."
When I sat face to face with Maxwell Hartington, my , in his ink-splashed, dirty, yellow-grained room with its rows of black tin boxes, I could no longer ignore that possibility. Maxwell Hartington sat back in his chair after his fashion, listening to my story, breathing noisily through his open mouth, little and looking more out of condition than ever. I never knew a man so wine-sodden and so sharp-witted.
"That's all very well, Stratton," he said, "between ourselves. Very unfortunate and all that sort of thing. But it doesn't satisfy Justin evidently; and we've got to put a different look on it if we can, before we go before a jury: You see——" He seemed to be considering and rejecting unpalatable phrases "They won't understand."
"But," I said, "after all—, a chance of the same hotel. There must be more evidence than that."
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