"Mrs. Fane didn't say who else knew about it?"
"No."
"Now think it over," interposed H.M., himself making a mesmeric pass. "Our good Fane, who was undoubtedly rather a lad as a skirt-chaser—"
(Here, Courtney noticed, Ann shivered.)
"Our good Fane has committed a crime for which the punishment is fairly well known. His wife knows it. All right. Suppose she hates it. Suppose she hates him like hell. Suppose she wants another man. Is she deliberately goin' to kill him like that, when all she's got to do is tip off the police?"
Silence.
And checkmate.
Westwards over Cheltenham, the low-lying sun made a dazzle among white and red roofs. It also lighted the broad and fishily skeptical expression on Masters' face.
"All very well," he conceded. "If it's true, if Mrs. Fane didn't make up the story herself."
"Well, son, it ought to be easy enough to prove. That's your job. Go to Agnew. Trace Polly Allen. Find out. But if it does turn out to be true, as I'm bettin' it will — Masters, you've got no more case against Mrs. Fane than Paddy's goat."