"Bah! That shows how you detectives often miss it. I was not near the
Langmore house when the murders were committed."
"You can prove that?" questioned Adam Adams curiously.
"Of course I can. I was over to Stony Hill with my team, doing some trading. I stopped at the tavern and at the hardware store, and had quite a chat with several people there. I left home at eight o'clock in the morning and didn't get back until one o'clock in the afternoon. If you had taken the trouble you could easily have found out that what I have told you is the truth."
"You can prove that you were at Stony Hill from ten to twelve that morning?"
"I can easily do it. You can ask Doc Mason, at the hardware shop, Sam Ross at the tavern, and Dick Stout at the stables, besides a dozen others. Why, I was even talking to Mr. Anderson, the minister. He is thinking of buying a horse from me."
"That detective ain't going to prove anything," broke in one of the men.
"That's right," came from another. "He has got to take his medicine as a spy."
"Of course," said Matlock Styles. "I only wanted to satisfy his curiosity. Maybe he'll die feeling easier now."
His cold-blooded way of speaking made a chill run down Adam Adams' backbone. He was beginning to see the Englishman in a new light. The man was a master of deception, not as clumsy in thought and action as he assumed to be. And he was as heartless as a stone.
"Would you murder me?" asked the detective.