"Yes, Mr. Gresham, I found it in that room, and on that bed in less than twelve hours after Mr. Pembroke was killed."
"You did! and you think therefore that I killed him, or at least that I was in his room! Why, man, I have already told you that I never knew Mr. Pembroke, and have certainly never been to his house, nor do I even know where he lives!"
This was all very well if it were true, but how was I to know whether this fine gentleman were lying or not. To be sure his face, voice and manner gave every effect of outraged innocence, but was that not just what a clever criminal would show?
"Where were you late last Wednesday night?" I asked him bluntly.
"By Jove! I don't know! I may have been in a dozen places. I go where I choose, and I don't keep a diary of my doings!"
"But try to think, Mr. Gresham," I said, more gently; "were you here at this club?"
"I may have been and I may not. I may have been motoring, or dining out, or at the theatre, or anywhere. I tell you I don't know where I was."
"It will be to your own interest to remember," I said, speaking sternly, for now I began to suspect the man.
"Why do you say that?"