“Listen, Joyce. The man, you say, was dark and with a pointed beard. He was in evening clothes, and wore no hat. He had reason to hate Eric Stannard. Do you know of any one who fulfils those conditions?”
Joyce looked at him, and a cloud of fear came to her beautiful eyes.
“Don’t, Eugene,” she cried, putting up her white hand, as if to ward off a blow. “Don’t!”
“I must, Joyce. And you must listen. When I left you, did you keep your head down on that pillow—or, did you raise it? Tell me truly, dearest.”
“I—I kept it down there. I was crying a little—after what—you know—what we had been talking about. I staid that way a long time.”
“Until you heard the sounds from the studio?”
“Yes; until that.”
“Then some one could have passed you—you wouldn’t have heard a soft step?”
“No, I probably shouldn’t—but, Eugene, it wasn’t you? Say it wasn’t you!”
“It was not. But I have to prove this, Joyce—and it will be difficult.”