“Suppose it was some one she didn’t know?”
“But oughtn’t her powers of second sight, if she has such, reveal to her the identity of the man? She didn’t know what was in your envelopes, but she told you. Why didn’t her supernatural powers inform her the man’s name?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Ford. I’m only telling you what I saw and heard.”
“That’s all I want.” And after a short further conversation, Alan Ford dismissed Barry and asked Mrs. Stannard to come to him next.
“It will be hard for you, I know,” he said gently, as he placed a chair for her, “but I want you to tell me just what occurred at the time of Mr. Stannard’s death. Tell only your own part, only what you, yourself, did or saw.”
“You suspect I killed my husband?” said Joyce, in a choking whisper.
“It will depend on your story, what I suspect. Do not be afraid and do not distrust me, Mrs. Stannard. I want to help you, in any case. Whatever the truth, I can help you, and I want to assure you of that.”
The infinite gentleness of his tone, the kind light in his eyes and the utter sympathy evident in his whole manner reassured Joyce, and in a low voice she began.
“I have told it so many times, I know it by heart. I was in the Billiard Room with Mr. Courtenay. I will not explain or defend the fact that I was there alone with him, but merely state that I was. He left me, and as I was heartsick over my own private and personal affairs, I buried my head in a sofa-cushion and cried. Not a real crying spell of sobs and tears, but an emotion which I endeavoured to restrain or control that I might meet others without causing comment. As I bowed my head there, I am positive I heard my husband talking to some woman.”
“Miss Vernon?”