"No," said I again, "I think not: indeed, I am sure he is not." I glanced at Archibald Plinlimmon who had been standing with eyes downcast and gloomy, studying the dim pattern of the carpet at his feet. He looked up now: his face had grown resolute.
"No," he echoed in a strained voice; "he had nothing to do with the murder."
"Why, what on earth do you know?" cried Mr. Rogers, and Isabel, too, bent back on her knees and gazed on him amazedly.
"I was there."
"Where, in Heaven's name?"
"On the roof outside the garret. I looked in and saw the body lying."
"You were on the roof—you looked in and saw the body—" Mr. Rogers repeated the words stupidly, automatically, searching for speech of his own. "Man alive, how came you on the roof? What were you doing there?"
"We were billeted three doors away," said Archibald, and paused. "I can tell you no more just now."
"'We'?"
"That man and I." He pointed at Leicester.