“I see. I see.” And I knew that Keeley Moore had crossed Harper Ames definitely off his list of suspects.
Doubtless he was right. Kee was seldom wrong.
But I was worried. I was getting to the pitch where I was always worried—about Alma. Oh, if only I hadn’t seen her go to Pleasure Dome that night! Or if I could find an innocent reason for her going. Or if she hadn’t denied on the witness stand that she did go.
Anyhow, it was plain to be seen that not only Keeley Moore but Detective March had exonerated Ames in their minds, and that because of Ames’s own frank relation of a hitherto suppressed bit of evidence.
“All a fake,” I said, angrily, to myself. “He’s pulling wool over their eyes!” But I knew better. Even to my untrained intelligence, Ames’s story had rung true. He had heard the sound in the hall, and no one who heard his tale could doubt it.
Then Ames rose to go, and somehow, I found myself by Maud’s side walking down to the gate with our caller.
“Do come over again, Mr. Ames,” Maud said, hospitably, as she bade him good-bye.
And then Ames went off and March came along on his way out.
Maud stopped him to speak a moment, and I half turned aside. Had I known what the result of her words would be, I think I should have choked her to silence ere I let her utter them!
But I only heard her say, casually: “Then you will not be at the funeral, Mr. March?”