"Thérèse," he said after a pause, "I suppose you haven't had any word from Arthur Holliday, have you?"
"From Arthur? But yes, certainly; he telephoned me a little while ago."
Roger sat up again, galvanising into life.
"He telephoned you? What did he say? About Miss Rowe, I mean."
"I asked him. He said after they left here he had a breakdown; I forgot what he said went wrong. The nurse was in a hurry, so he got her a taxi, put her into it with her luggage, and she drove off. That's all he knows."
"Oh! Did he happen to mention why he didn't go back to his hotel last night?"
She smiled shrewdly, as if she guessed his thoughts.
"Yes; he said he dined at the Casino with a man he ran into, took a bank at baccarat, and as he was winning he didn't like to leave off until the room closed. After that he went to a Turkish bath."
It furnished an excellent, complete alibi, if one could believe it.
After all, why not? It could easily be true.
"He's catching the night train back to Paris," she went on. "He only came for the funeral. You know he was so fond of poor Charles."