"No."
Parker's eyes wandered to the photographs.
"I don't believe it," he said obstinately. "I'm damned if I'm going to believe a word of it."
"A word of what?"
"Of whatever it is."
"You'll have to believe it, Charles, as far as it goes," said his friend softly, filling his pipe with decided little digs of the fingers. "I don't say"—dig—"that Mary"—dig—"shot Cathcart"—dig, dig—"but she has lied"—dig—"again and again."—Dig, dig—"She knows who did it"—dig—"she was prepared for it"—dig—"she's malingering and lying to keep the fellow shielded"—dig—"and we shall have to make her speak." Here he struck a match and lit the pipe in a series of angry little puffs.
"If you can think," said Mr. Parker, with some heat, "that that woman"—he indicated the photographs—"had any hand in murdering Cathcart, I don't care what your evidence is, you—hang it all, Wimsey, she's your own sister."
"Gerald is my brother," said Wimsey quietly. "You don't suppose I'm exactly enjoying this business, do you? But I think we shall get along very much better if we try to keep our tempers."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Parker. "Can't think why I said that—rotten bad form—beg pardon, old man."
"The best thing we can do," said Wimsey, "is to look the evidence in the face, however ugly. And I don't mind admittin' that some of it's a positive gargoyle.