Though H.M. showed a passing gleam of interest in this, turning round to look at her, he addressed Masters again.
"Ah the evidence shouts belief. Oh, my eye, doesn't it? The plot is perfect. The motive is there. The evidence is strong. There's only just one little difficulty about it."
"What's that?"
"It ain't true," said H.M.
Masters was commencing to lose his temper.
"What's the good of saying that, sir? When you yourself will admit—"
"This feller," interrupted H.M., pointing at Courtney, "was out on the balcony of Mrs. Fane's bedroom between the time Frank Sharpless carried her up there almost to the time she was waked up out of her sleep. Now listen to what he has to say; and then go and eat worms."
Phil Courtney was hotly uncomfortable. Ann's eyes flashed round to his, startled: he avoided them, but he retained the memory of them while he told his story.
He remembered how H.M. had dragged the facts out of him last night, standing in the moonlight in front of Fane's house, with the shadows of the elms against the sky. It sounded, he thought (or at least it must sound to Ann) like the tale of a prowler and a spy. Yet for Vicky Fane's sake he was glad to tell it, and very quick to tell it.
Masters stared at him.