"I see it now," I assented hoarsely.
"Why, Marcia Lawrence could no more be concerned in a thing like that," he went on hotly, "than—than a babe unborn. She could not be concerned in anything wrong, or mean, or criminal. I want you to understand, Mr. Lester, that she's absolutely spotless. If you knew her, I shouldn't need to tell you."
"I've always believed it," I protested. "In my heart of hearts, I've always believed it. We've been fools—we've been trying to make two things fit which didn't fit. We imagined they must fit because they happened so close together. I see now that it was merely a coincidence, and I'm glad from the very bottom of my heart."
"You believed, then, that Miss Lawrence was really concerned in this murder?"
"We thought her the active party in it."
"The active party! But on what grounds?"
"We thought the dead man was her husband—an adventurer who'd lured her into a marriage while she was abroad. You'll remember I mentioned this theory to you the other night."
"Yes, and I told you at the time how ridiculous I thought it."
"I've never wholly believed it," I repeated. "It wasn't mine. But it seemed to fit the facts so perfectly, and when you intimated this afternoon, as I thought, that Miss Lawrence was subject to spells of insanity, I imagined that I understood the whole story."
He sat for a moment silent, regarding me from half-closed eyes; I saw that he was considering whether he should speak or remain silent.