“Yes, sir. All but Michael, down at the dock, and me.”
“Very well. Now, do you remember the night Mr. Tracy died?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where was Miss Remsen that night?”
“Here at home, sir.”
“What did she do through the evening?”
“She read in a book, sir, then she played the piano a bit and then she went to bed.”
This was reeled off glibly, a little too glibly, I thought. It sounded parrot-like, as if a lesson, learned by rote. Evidently March thought so too, for he said, looking at her closely:
“How do you know this?”
“How do I know?” she looked a little blank. “Oh, yes, I know, because I saw her now and again as I passed through the hall.”