“What is it now?” Raeburn was sharp.
“We’ve come for you,” Roger said, quietly. “Ma’s son, Joe, couldn’t keep as silent as he meant to; the fact that he was making himself an accessory to Halliwell’s murder made him speak. That’s put Ma in a nasty spot. In the second place, you weren’t careful enough with Tenby’s chocolates. We found a print on a poisoned one from your left index finger. In the third—”
“You’re lying!” cried Raeburn, and he went deathly white.
“And in the third place, Eve has also talked,” finished Roger, “so we’ve got you for Halliwell’s murder. I convinced her that Warrender went to kill her with your knowledge, and she didn’t think much of it. Don’t make a fuss,” he went on, sardonically, “you’ll get your picture in the Cry, and probably the readers will write to you in jail.”
When Roger got home that night, Janet, the boys, and Mark were all waiting, eager to talk.
“I always knew you’d win,” Richard crowed.
“It was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?” Scoopy declared “Good old pop!”
THE END