Jefferson was still at work among the piled-up papers. He glanced up abstractedly as Roger entered the room and then smiled slightly.
“Come to offer me a hand again?” he asked. “Devilish good of you, but I’m afraid there’s absolutely nothing I can turn over to you this time.”
Roger drew a chair up to the other side of the table and seated himself deliberately.
“As a matter of fact, I hadn’t,” he said slowly. “I wanted to ask you one or two questions, Jefferson, if you would be good enough to answer them.”
Jefferson looked slightly surprised.
“Questions? All right, fire away. What can I tell you?”
“Well, the first thing I want to ask you,” Roger shot out, “is—where were you at the time that Stanworth died?”
A look of blank astonishment was followed in Jefferson’s face by an angry flush.
“And what the devil has that got to do with you?” he asked abruptly.
“Never mind for the moment what it has to do with me,” Roger replied, his heart beating a little faster than usual. “I want you to answer that question.”