“Did you see Mr. Stewart again before you retired for the night?”
“No—I was tired. It had been a rather hot day, down here, as you probably know yourself. And I seem to mind the heat. I thought I would go to bed early.”
“You are quite certain you didn’t go into the library?”
“Positive.” Miss Lennox flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve.
“When did you last go in there?”
“To the library? I didn’t go in at any time yesterday. Why do you ask?”
She was lying! Clegg knew it! But he wasn’t certain why he knew it. His knowledge didn’t emanate altogether from the fact of the lace handkerchief lying in his pocket. It came rather from the lady herself. Nonchalant, despite her grief, utterly self-controlled, she nevertheless failed to impress him with the quality of simple sincerity. He was fairly certain that she was acting a part. His present and immediate task was to discover “why”! He had half intended to tax her here and now with the handkerchief, but in the later light of what she had just told him—he decided to keep quiet—for a time at least.
“I fancied I was told by Mr. Stewart here that he saw you in there.”
“No, Sergeant. Your memory has failed you! I said nothing of the kind.” Charles Stewart appeared anxious to clear up this misunderstanding. It seemed to him that Marjorie needed protection.
“Sorry, sir.” Sergeant Clegg made his apology.