“Yes, and mentally, too. I admit my father’s moral weakness, yet he was not a bad man, as men go. His artistic temperament was responsible for his being blamed far more than was just or right.”
“That is probably true,” said Ford, seriously. “To a man of that sensitiveness to beauty many things seemed right that were not. Now, Mr. Stannard, will you please tell me everything about the actual facts as you know them, regarding the hour or half hour in which the crime was committed? Don’t shade or colour your story to shield Miss Vernon, for such a bias will only prejudice my judgment against her. Tell me exactly the events as they followed one another to your positive knowledge, and nothing more.”
“Very well, Mr. Ford, I will do just as you ask. But let me say this first; there are three suspects——”
“Excuse me, there are four suspects.”
“If you count Mr. Courtenay, yes. But the three in the house, my stepmother, Miss Vernon and myself, have been definitely suspected and, probably, are still. So I want to say, that if one of us must remain under suspicion, let it be me. It is impossible that a woman did this deed. So investigate along the line of Courtenay or myself, but as I feel quite sure you can get no real evidence against him, use me for a scapegoat, while you are finding the real criminal.”
“Then you are not the criminal, Mr. Stannard?”
“If I were, would I be apt to tell you?”
“You couldn’t help telling me. Not in words, but in manner, in glance, in intonation, in a dozen ways, over which you have no control.”
“Have I told you so?”
“You have not. I know positively you did not kill your father. But, go on, please, with your recital.”