A light little wind shook the laurels outside the French windows, and a few drops of rain struck the glass. Antrim sat back in his chair like a man who has got a cramp in his stomach, and wants to ease it; but his eyes remained fixed on H.M.
"With the same stuff that killed Hogenauer," H.M. added.
"My God," said Antrim vacantly.
"Does Betty know?" he asked, after a pause.
"No. I didn't think we needed to alarm her, d'ye see." Again H.M. poked at the eyes of the skull with the stem of his pipe. "Here, don't hop about like that! Sit still. I don't want you to get the breeze up. In the strict sense o' the word, I don't think it was another murder; it was a piece of carelessness on Hogenauer's part. I tell you this because everybody's got an alibi for the time he died. But, burn me, there's one question you've got to answer if you want to keep out of trouble, and you answer it truthfully. You been in this house all evening. You been wanderin' about from room to room. Who was using the telephone, one of the telephones, at one-thirty this morning?"
Antrim slowly hammered the top of his fist against his forehead.
"One-thirty," he repeated. "Telephone. Yes. Certainly. I remember. I can tell you. It was that swine Serpos — Joseph Serpos. What's he done now?"
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Voice in the Parlour
Slowly, quietly, it had begun to rain. It was the light rain just before dawn, without violence or wind, which creeps out and fills the world with a drowsy rustling. We heard the rustle of the shower deepen, and run across the house, and splash in the laurels.