“You—you saw us!” he gasped.
“No, I didn't see you; it is merely a matter of observation, deduction, and memory. You recollect the muddy shoes?” he added, turning to me.
Did I recollect! Well, rather! And it certainly was a coincidence that we had chanced to examine those shoes that morning at the hotel.
As for Mr. Randolph and the district attorney, they were quite as much surprised as Hall.
“Can you prove this astonishing story, Mr. Stone?” asked Mr. Goodrich, with an incredulous look.
“Oh, yes, in lots of ways,” returned Stone. “For one thing, Mr. Hall has in his pocket now a letter from the young lady. The whole matter is of no great importance except as it proves Mr. Hall was not in West Sedgwick that night, and so is not the murderer.”
“But why conceal so simple a matter? Why refuse to tell of the episode?” asked Mr. Randolph.
“Because,” and now Fleming Stone looked at Hall with accusation in his glance—“because Mr. Hall is very anxious that his fiancee shall not know of his attentions to the young lady in Brooklyn.”
“O-ho!” said Mr. Goodrich, with sudden enlightenment. “I see it all now. Is it the truth, Mr. Hall? Did you go to Brooklyn and back that night, as Mr. Stone has described?”
Gregory Hall fidgeted in an embarrassed way. But, unable to escape the piercing gaze of Stone's eyes, he admitted grudgingly that the detective had told the truth, adding, “But it's wizardry, that's what it is! How could he know?”