Stone, bent on investigation, plied Miss Ames with questions.
Elliott, sorely afraid for Eunice, begged the old lady not to answer.
“You are inventing!” he cried. “You are drawing on your imagination! Don’t believe all that, Mr. Stone. It isn’t fair to—to Mrs. Embury!”
“Then you see it as I do, Mr. Elliott?” and Stone turned to him quickly. “But, even so, we must look into this story. Suppose, as an experiment, we build up a case against Mrs. Embury, for the purpose of knocking it down again. A man of straw—you know.”
“Don’t,” pleaded Elliott. “Just forget the rigmarole of the nocturnal vision—and devote your energies to finding the real murderer. I have a theory—”
“Wait, Mr. Elliott, I fear you are an interested investigator. Don’t forget that you have been mentioned as one of those with ‘motive but no opportunity.’“
“Since you have raised that issue, Mr. Stone, let me say right here that my regard for Mrs. Embury is very great. It is also honorable and lifelong. I make no secret of it, but I declare to you that its very purity and intensity puts it far above and beyond any suspicion of being ‘motive’ for the murder of Mrs. Embury’s huband.”
Mason Elliott looked Fleming Stone straight in the eye and the speaker’s tone and expression carried a strong conviction of sincerity.
Fibsy, too, scrutinized Elliott.
“Good egg!” he observed to himself; “trouble is—he’d give us that same song and dance if he’d croaked the guy his own self!”