“And since then, of course, Stanworth had the whip hand over her?”
Jefferson winced. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Even after her father died, she wouldn’t want the family shown up.”
“I see,” said Roger thoughtfully. So Lady Stanworth had little enough reason to love her brother-in-law. And since Jefferson fell in love with her, her cause would naturally become his. Truly he had motive and to spare for ridding the world of such a man. Yet, although Jefferson and his wife might easily have concocted the story of his whereabouts that night, Roger already felt just as convinced of the former’s innocence as he was before of his guilt. The man’s manner seemed somehow to preclude altogether the idea of subterfuge. Had he really killed Stanworth, Roger was sure that he would have said so by the time that matters had reached this length, bluntly and simply, just as he had told the story of his own downfall.
But in spite of his convictions, Roger was not such a fool as not to put the obvious questions that occurred to him.
“Why was your marriage secret?” he asked. “Did Stanworth know about it?”
“No; he wouldn’t have allowed it. It would have looked like a combination against him. He wanted us separate, for his own ends.”
“Did you hear the shot that killed him?” Roger said suddenly.
“No. About two o’clock, wasn’t it? I’d been asleep two hours.”
“You did sleep with your wife then, in spite of the necessity of preserving secrecy?”
“Her maid knew. Used to go back to my room in the early morning. Beastly hole-and-corner business, but no alternative.”