"Man alive, listen! Get the fog out of your brain and think! Do you still love this girl?"
To answer this properly, it appeared, would require so many fervent words that Sharpless did not even try. He went over to the bed and pressed one of Vicky's hands.
"All right," said Courtney. "And she's yours now; had you realized it? Her husband's dead. That's motive. M-o-t-i-v-e, motive. If you prove that someone must have crept in from outside, that's fine. You're safe and clear. But if the police ever get the idea it must have been somebody in the room…"
Sharpless dropped Vicky's hand, and slowly turned round.
"So help me, Harry," he announced, driving his right fist into the palm of his other hand. "I never thought of it."
"Then you'd better begin to think of it."
"But why? Curse it all, they can't suspect me — or Rich or the Browning girl either, if it comes to that. We've got alibis like stone houses."
"You're sure of that?"
"Definitely."
"Well, just see you keep hammering it home to the police, that's all. Look here. Strictly between ourselves, yoit didn't…?"