Mr. Steadman looked at Anthony. “I understand that you called at the office yesterday morning.”
“Yes, I did,” returned Anthony defiantly. “And, when old Thompson told me I couldn't see Mr. Bechcombe, I was fool enough to say I would go round to the private door and get in to him that way.”
“And did you?” questioned Mr. Steadman quietly.
“Yes, I did, but I did not go in and murder my uncle,” returned Anthony in the same loud, passionate tone.
“Did you see him?” Mr. Steadman inquired.
“Yes. He came to the door and told me to go away. He was expecting an important client.”
“Tony, you did not ask him for money?” his father said piteously.
Anthony's face softened as he looked at him. “I was going to, but I didn't get the chance. He wouldn't listen to me. I went on to ask a friend of mine in the next room to come out to lunch with me. As we were passing my uncle's room he came to the door. ‘I want you, Tony,’ he said sharply. My friend went on, telling me to follow to the Field of Rest. Uncle Luke kept me a few minutes talking. He told me that if I had a really good opening he would go into it, if it were really promising the lack of money should not stand in the way. He said I was to come and see him that night and talk things over. I meant to go, of course. But then I heard this——” and Anthony gulped down something in his throat.
“Did you keep your friend waiting?” inquired Mr. Steadman.
“Yes, I did!” Tony answered, staring at him. “Uncle Luke kept me a minute or two. But then I missed my way to the Field of Rest, and was wandering about the best part of half an hour. I suppose you don't call that a very satisfactory alibi,” he added truculently.