“I’m glad,” he murmured, half apologetically.
Jefferson was carrying the thing off well. Not only did he appear to be feeling no fear at all, but his manner was not even that of defiance. The attitude he had adopted and which sat perfectly naturally upon him was rather one of dignified condescension.
“But before I answer you, Sheringham,” he said stiffly, “I should like to say, both on behalf of this lady and myself, that we consider——”
Lady Stanworth turned to him. “Please!” she said quietly. “I don’t think we need go into that. If Mr. Sheringham is incapable of understanding the position into which he has forced us, there can hardly be any need to labour the point.”
“Quite, quite,” Roger murmured still more apologetically, and feeling unaccountably small. Lady Stanworth was perhaps the only person in the world who consistently had that effect upon him.
“Very well,” Jefferson bowed. He turned to Roger. “You wanted to know where I was on the night that Stanworth shot himself?”
“On the night of Stanworth’s death,” Roger corrected, with a slight smile.
“On the night of Stanworth’s death then,” Jefferson said impatiently. “Same thing. As I said before, I fail entirely to see how it can concern you, but we have decided under the circumstances to tell you. After all, the fact will be common knowledge soon enough now. I was with my wife.”
“Your wife?” Roger echoed, scarcely able to believe his ears.
“That is what I said,” Jefferson replied coldly. “Lady Stanworth and I were married secretly nearly six months ago.”