“Mr. Burroughs,” he said quietly, “you must be insane.”
“That is no answer to my accusations,” I stormed. “I tell you of the most conclusive evidence against yourself, and instead of any attempt to refute it you mildly remark, `you are insane.' It is you who are insane, Mr. Hall, if you think you can escape arrest and trial for the murder of Joseph Crawford.”
“Oh, I think I can,” was his only answer, with that maddening little smile of his.
“Then where were you on Tuesday night?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where were you on Tuesday night?”
“That I refuse to tell—as I have refused before, and shall always refuse.”
“Because you were here, and because you have too much wisdom to try to prove a false alibi.”
He looked at me half admiringly. “You are right in that,” he said. “It is extremely foolish for any one to fake an alibi, and I certainly never should try to do so.”
“That's how I know you were here,” I replied triumphantly.