Falcon’s face wore a new horror. “Surely you aren’t going to tell me that Alan Warburton’s the murderer? I can’t believe that. Why——”
“Why—what?”
Falcon shifted uneasily in his chair and knew that despite all he himself could achieve to the contrary, Bannister meant to have his question answered. He caught the Inspector’s eyes fixed unwaveringly on his own and realised that there was going to be no escape for him.
“Well,” he said eventually—semi-apologetically—“what I was going to say exactly was this. Miss Delaney and Alan Warburton were, a short time ago by way of being very great friends—that was all.” As he spoke his eyes sought Bannister’s again in the hope that the Inspector would be able to find satisfaction in his statement. But Bannister had by this time scented his quarry and refused to be in any way denied the swift exultation of the hunt.
“What do you mean exactly by the expression ‘great friends’?”
Falcon’s tongue played round his lips nervously before he answered. “Well, Inspector, let me put it like this, they were seen about together a rare lot. Went to dances together, went motoring together—theatres—you know—the usual companionship of a young fellow and a young girl. People began to look for one with the other.”
“Did that state of affairs exist what you might term recently?”
“That’s a question I couldn’t properly answer, Inspector. Certainly, I believe they were nothing like as intimate as they had been in the past. That’s what I’ve been told—and from what I’ve been able to see for myself it was perfectly true. It was noticeable.”
“Had the lady other admirers or formed other attractions?”
Falcon shrugged his ample shoulders. “I couldn’t put a name to one, Inspector, if that’s what you mean—but I should think it extremely likely.”