“Is that John Mills’ signature?” he asked, showing her the paper.
“It is, sir,” she replied, looking at him in wonder.
A satisfied smile played on Keefe’s face, only to be effaced at Stone’s next question.
“And was John Mills the person you saw—vaguely—on the south veranda that night of Mr. Appleby’s murder?”
“That he was not!” she cried, emphatically. “It was a man not a bit like Mills, and be the same token, John Mills was in his bed onable to walk at all, at all.”
“That will do, Mr. Wheeler,” and Stone dismissed the cook with a glance. “Now, Mr. Keefe?”
“As if that woman’s story mattered,” Keefe sneered, contemptuously, “she is merely mistaken, that’s all. The word of the maid, Rachel, is as good as that of the cook——”
“Oh, no, it isn’t!” Stone interrupted, but, paying no heed to him, Keefe went on; “and you can scarcely doubt the signature after Mr. Wheeler and your friend the cook have both verified it.”
Though his demeanor was quiet, Keefe’s face wore a defiant expression and his voice was a trifle blustering.
“I do not doubt the signature,” Stone declared, “nor do I doubt that you obtained it at the hospital exactly as you have described that incident.”