"Then, do I understand," summed up Carroll, "that the night Mrs. Darcy was killed you had a quarrel with her over Miss Mason, and about the money and because you spent too much time working on your patent lathe?"
"Well, yes, though I don't admit I spent too much time, and I surely will claim she owed me that money. As for Miss Mason—I'd prefer to have her name left out," faltered the young jeweler.
"We can't always have what we want," said Thong, dryly. "Was the quarrel specially bitter?"
"Not any more so than others. I had to speak a little loud, for my cousin was getting a trifle deaf."
"And after the quarrel you went to bed?"
"Yes."
"And you didn't see your cousin again until—when?" and Carroll looked
Darcy straight in the eyes.
"Not until after she was—dead."
"Um! I guess that's all now."
They let the young man go, back to his room in police headquarters. It was not a cell—yet, though it would seem likely to come to that, for Thong observed to his partner as they went downstairs: