“And that was at quarter after eleven?”
“It was later,” declared Cicely. “For Mr. Carleton told you himself that he went directly into the library as soon as he came into the house, and as I heard his cry at half-past eleven he must have entered only a few moments before.”
Schuyler Carleton stared at Cicely, and she returned his gaze.
His face was absolutely inscrutable, a pallid mask, that might have concealed emotion of any sort. But there was a suggestion of fear in the strange eyes, as they gazed at Cicely, and though it was quickly suppressed it had been noted by those most interested.
The girl looked straight at him, with determination written in every line of her face. It was quite evident to the onlookers that a mental message was passing between these two.
“You are sure, Mr. Hunt, that your statement as to the time is correct?” said the coroner, turning again to him.
“Perfectly sure, sir. It is my business to be sure of the time.”
“Mr. Carleton,” said Mr. Benson, “there is an apparent discrepancy here, which it is advisable for you to explain. If you came into this house at quarter after eleven, and rang the bells for help at half-past eleven, what were you doing in the meantime?”
It was out at last. The coroner’s question, though quietly put, was equivalent to an accusation. Every eye in the room was turned toward Carleton, and every ear waited in suspense for his reply.
At last the answer came. The dazed, uncertain look had returned to Carleton’s face and his voice sounded mechanical, like that of an automaton, as he replied, “I decline to say.”