“I don’t suppose you are for a moment,” was the rejoinder, “the case, as a whole, bristles with extremely puzzling details—and you don’t know them all, Daventry, take it from me.”
Peter looked at him incredulously. “Why—what do you mean?”
“I got one or two pieces of evidence from Sergeant Clegg that he collected before we arrived at the scene—I haven’t told you of all of them yet.”
“Tell me now,” said Peter anxiously, “don’t leave me in the dark.”
“Let’s take the case as a whole then, without stopping to attempt to think of what you know and what you don’t know. Stewart is murdered, I’m confident I’m right here, about eleven p. m. Colonel Leach-Fletcher left at ten o’clock, Butterworth can give unimpeachable confirmation of that. The Colonel tells us that Stewart intended interviewing his son about some matter that was causing friction between them. We’ll call it friction—although it may have been of more serious consequence. It is a significant fact that Charles Stewart, although calling you and me into the case, has maintained an eloquent silence concerning it, whatever it was. Now we arrive at a further complication. Butterworth tells Sergeant Clegg that he heard Stewart—Laurence Stewart—in conversation with somebody else in the library at ten minutes past ten!” He paused and watched Peter intently.
“You don’t say so,” exclaimed the latter. “Can he tell who it was?”
“Oh yes,” murmured Anthony negligently, “he recognized the person’s voice.”
“Then who was it?” demanded Peter eagerly.
“Marjorie Lennox!” Anthony dropped the name daintily and delicately—he must have been thinking of the little lady herself.
“It’s a lie,” cried Peter. “The butler’s lying—I refuse to believe it—it’s not feasible—it’s——”