“Moorhouse, I saw you at Epsom, so I suppose you bet? Well, I’ll lay you a pound to a penny that unless the real murderer of Sir John is discovered pretty quickly, one or other of you three, if not all of you, will be accused of the murder—very likely arrested for it, if they can find the semblance of any circumstantial evidence. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll look pretty carefully to your alibis on the evening and night Sir John was murdered.”
“You cannot mean that seriously, Tempest?”
“I do mean it, and I’m perfectly serious. You three men are not in an enviable position.”
As Tempest spoke he looked across the table to where Marston was sitting. His face had gone as white as a sheet, and his fingers were trembling as mechanically he eased the collar at his throat.
“What’s the matter, Marston?” said one of his partners.
“It’s three months ago. I’ve no more idea than the man in the moon what I was doing that evening.”
“Keep an engagement book?” asked Tempest.
“No—not private things. Just stick the cards up on the mantelpiece till the shows are over and then pitch ’em away.”
“Nor a diary?”
“No. Never did such a thing.”