And yet, except that his faced burned more dully red, the Inspector was as impassively calm as ever.

Even Kent's intimation that he was playing a game, and his direct accusation that he was keeping Marette Radisson in hiding at his bungalow, seemed to have no disturbing effect on him.

For a space he looked at Kent, as if measuring the poise of the other's mind.

When he spoke, it was in a voice so quiet and calm that Kent stared at him in amazement.
"I don't blame you, Kent," he said.

"I don't blame you for calling me a scoundrel, or anything else you want to.