“Did he know who stabbed him?”
“How can I tell that? But if he had known that I did it, or had thought that I did it, he would never have said so, had he been aware of what he was saying.”
“You mean, if you had been guilty, he would have shielded you, rather than accused you with his last breath?”
“Yes, or Joyce either. Or any woman. Eric Stannard would never accuse a woman of wrongdoing. His speech meant anything rather than that.”
“Miss Vernon, this puts a very different light on your connection with the affair. Why didn’t you tell this before?”
“Can’t you understand, Mr. Roberts? I have no love for Eric Stannard, I never had any. His attentions annoyed me, his insistence on painting me as he wished to, also annoyed me. I would have left him long ago, but for Barry. Also, I am fond of Joyce. She has been most kind to me, and never jealous of me until lately. Now, I hated to announce that those dying words meant that Mr. Stannard put me ahead of his wife in his affection, especially as it didn’t altogether mean that, it was merest chance that he saw me and not her——”
“But he did see her, for he said ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’”
“Yes, I know,” and the little foot tapped the rug, impatiently,—“but, I mean, he saw me, and he was for the moment interested in me, and he was in pain, or a sort of stupor, or—oh, I don’t know what his sensations were, I’m sure,—but I want to show you that he spoke at random, and it didn’t mean as much as it seems to.”
Natalie had grown excited, her lip trembled, and her voice was unsteady. Either she was desperately anxious to make the truth clear, or she was making up a preposterous story.
If she were guilty, this was a great scheme to divert the suspicion so emphasised by the victim’s statement, and if she were innocent, the story she told might well be true.