“And you had it on when you sat on the bench?”
“Why, confound it, man. I don’t know! I suppose I did. No, let me see. I believe I was carrying it, and laid it on the bench beside me.”
“And left it there?”
Courtenay laughed a little self-consciously. “Yes, I did. I came nearly home before I thought of it. Then I went back and gathered it in. Why?”
Again that direct, snapped-out question.
“What was going on at the house when you went back?”
“How should I know? After events prove that the tragedy in the studio was then being gone through with—but I had no idea of that at the time. I glanced at the house, of course. There was a light in the studio—in fact, lights over most of the house. I found my cap and came on home. Why?”
“I’ll answer your whys, Mr. Courtenay. Because the police have reason to think your story is not entirely true. Because we think it was you, yourself, who turned off the studio light.”
“Do I understand, Mr. Roberts, you mean that I—let us speak plainly—that I killed Eric Stannard?”
“Did you, Mr. Courtenay?”