“Yes.”
“And it was not raining when you went, or when you came home, or when you opened that window?”
“No.”
“But, Miss Remsen, it is an established fact that it rained all that afternoon, from one till six o’clock. This is verified by the weather statistics.”
Only for a moment did Alma look blank. Then she said, quickly:
“Oh, really? Then I must be mistaken in the day. I must have been there Monday afternoon. The days fly by so swiftly in summer, I can hardly keep track of them.”
“Perhaps,” said Kee, looking a bit baffled. “But another strange thing—Griscom says those fingerprints were not on the white paint Wednesday evening when he put the suite in order for the night. He says he would surely have seen them if they had been.”
She gave a little light laugh. “Poor old Griscom. His eyes are not what they used to be, I daresay. Now, Mr. Moore, just what is it you want me to say? Am I proving an alibi? Or are you trying to trick me into a confession that I killed my uncle? Because, I didn’t, and though I may be hazy about the exact time of my last visit to him, I did go over there——”
“And he did give you the satin waistcoats?”
“Yes,” but now her eyelids quivered, “he did give me the satin waistcoats.”