“Splendid! You’re a trump, Natalie. You know, girl, don’t you, why I confessed?”
“Of course I do. I was sure you couldn’t make the police believe you, and then I knew it would swing back to me. So I had to take desperate measures, and I did.”
“Barry,” said Joyce, “your attempts to get suspicion turned your way, or any way, are too transparent. You scratched up the window frame to make it appear a burglar had entered there, and nobody believed it for a minute.”
“I know it, I’m no good as a deceiver. But, oh, Natalie, don’t think I suspected you, but I knew others would, and did, and I was frantic. And I vowed I did it, in an effort to distract their attention from you. But your going yourself for Ford, clears you in every one’s eyes, and now he’ll find the man. It was some man who came in—it has to be. There is no other explanation—positively none.”
“It wasn’t Eugene!” whispered Joyce, her face drawn with new apprehension.
“Of course it wasn’t,” said Beatrice, soothingly. “Don’t worry over that, Joyce, dear. Mr. Wadsworth has exculpated Mr. Courtenay.”
“But nothing seems sure,” Joyce said, with a sad shake of her head.
“Well, it will be sure, once Alan Ford gets here,” declared Barry. “I can hardly wait to see him.”
Alan Ford arrived the next morning. When he entered the Reception Room, his tall, commanding presence seemed to fill the whole room. With perfect courtesy, he greeted Joyce first, and then the others, and finally seated himself, facing the group.
Though not to be called handsome, his face was fine and scholarly, and his iron grey hair made him look older than his fifty years. His manner was quiet, but alert, as if no hint or lightest word could escape his attention.