"Well, of course, it was Arthur Leighton," I rejoined impatiently. "Mrs. Tufnell saw him——"
"She didn't," he broke in quickly. "The house was pitch-dark; she heard voices and she asked Ann whether she was speaking to Mr. Leighton."
"And Ann said yes!" I riposted.
"She said yes," he admitted with an irritating smile.
"And Leighton himself in his evidence——"
"Leighton in his evidence," the funny creature broke in excitedly, "admitted that he had called at the house, he admitted that he remembered vaguely that Ann Weber told him that Mr. Jessup had decided not to see him, and that to celebrate the occasion he got the girl to make him a whisky toddy. But, apart from these facts, he only had the haziest notions as to the time when he came and when he left or how long he stayed. Nor were his precious friends at the Café Royal any clearer on that point. They had all of them been drinking, and only had the haziest notion of time until twenty minutes to ten, when they got hungry and wanted their supper."
"But what does that prove?" I argued with an impatient frown.
"It proves that my contention is correct; that the first visitor was not Leighton, that it was some one for whom Ann Weber cared more than she did for Leighton, as she lied for his sake when she told her aunt that she was speaking to Leighton in the hall. The whole thing occurred just as the police supposed. The first visitor called, and while Ann Weber was down in the kitchen getting him something to eat and drink, he entered the office, probably not with any evil intention, and saw his employer sitting at his desk with the safe containing a quantity of loose cash invitingly open. Let us be charitable and assume that he yielded to sudden temptation. Mr. Jessup's coat, hat, and stick were lying there on a chair. The stick was one of those heavily-weighted ones which men like to carry nowadays. He seizes the stick and strikes the old man on the head with it, then he collects the money from the safe and thrusts it into his pockets. At that moment Ann Weber comes up the stairs. I say that this man was her lover; she had returned to him, as she did once before. Imagine her horror first, and then her desire—her mad desire—to save him from the consequences of his crime. It is her woman's wit which first suggests the idea of telephoning to Fitzjohn's Avenue: she who thinks of plunging the house in darkness. And now to get the criminal out of the house. It can be done in a moment, but just then Mrs. Tufnell opens her door on the second floor and begins to grope her way downstairs. It is impossible to think quickly enough how to meet this situation. Instinct is the only guide, and instinct suggests impersonating the deceased, to avoid the danger of Mrs. Tufnell peeping in at the office door. The criminal hastily dons his victim's hat and coat, and he is almost through the hall when Mrs. Tufnell calls to Ann: 'Is it Mr. Leighton?' And Ann on the impulse of the moment replies: 'Yes, it is! He is just going.' And so the criminal escapes unseen. But there is still the danger of Mrs. Tufnell peeping in at the office door, so Ann invents the story of having seen Mr. Jessup walk out of the house some time before. So for the moment danger is averted; the housekeeper does peep in at the door, but only in order to satisfy herself that the lights are out; and the women then go upstairs together.
"Ten minutes later there is another ring at the bell. This time it is Arthur Leighton, and Ann Weber has sufficient presence of mind not to let him see that there is anything wrong in the house. She asks him in, she tells him Mr. Jessup cannot see him, she gets him a drink, and sends him off again. I don't suppose for a moment that at this stage she has any intention of using him as a shield for her present sweetheart; but undoubtedly the thought had by now crept into her mind to utilise Leighton's admitted presence in the house for the purpose of confusing the issues. Nor do I think that she had any idea that night that Mr. Jessup was dead. She probably thought that he had only been stunned by a blow from the stick; hence her exclamation when she realised the truth: 'My God, he has killed him!' Then only did she concentrate all her energies and all her wits to saving her sweetheart—even at the cost of another man. Women are like that sometimes," the Old Man in the Corner went on with a chuckle, "the instinct of the primitive woman is first of all to save her man, never mind at whose expense. The cave-man's instinct is to protect his woman with his fists—but she, conscious of physical weakness, sets her wits to work, and if her man is in serious danger she will lie and she will cheat—ay, and perjure herself if need be. And those flirtatious minxes, of which Annie-bird is a striking example, are only cave-women with a veneer of civilisation over them.
"She did save her man by dragging a red herring across his trail, and she left Fate to deal with Leighton. Once embarked on a system of lies she had to stick to it or her man was doomed. Fortunately she could rely on the other woman. A mother's wits are even sharper than those of a sweetheart."