“I see. When would that be?”
“Oh, past one o’clock, I should say. I didn’t notice the time very particularly. I was feeling too upset.”
“Naturally. And nothing of any importance occurred between his—his ultimatum and your departure upstairs?”
“No. He refused to give way an inch, and at last I left off trying to persuade him and went up to bed. That is all.”
“And nobody else came in at all? Not a sign of anybody else?”
“No; nobody.”
“Humph!” said Roger thoughtfully. This was decidedly disappointing; yet somehow it was impossible to disbelieve Mrs. Plant’s story. Still, Jefferson might have come in later, having heard something of what had taken place from outside the room. At any rate, it appeared that Mrs. Plant herself could have had no hand in the actual murder, whatever provocation she might have received.
He decided to sound her a little farther.
“In view of what you’ve told me, Mrs. Plant,” he remarked rather more casually, “it seems very extraordinary that Stanworth should have committed suicide, doesn’t it? Can you account for it in any way?”
“No, I certainly can’t. It’s inexplicable to me. But, Mr. Sheringham, I am so thankful! No wonder I fainted when you told us after breakfast. I suddenly felt as if I had been let out of prison. Oh, that dreadful, terrible feeling of being in that man’s power! You can’t imagine it; or what an overwhelming relief it was to hear of his death.”