“Where were you at eleven-fifteen?”
“On tower Number 10 of the New York Central, scrapping for my life,” Quest answered grimly. “I’ve reason to remember it.”
Something in the Inspector’s steady gaze seemed to inspire the criminologist suddenly with a new idea. He came a step forward, a little frown upon his forehead.
“Say, French,” he exclaimed, “you don’t—you don’t suspect me of this?”
French was unmoved. He looked Quest in the eyes.
“I don’t know,” he said.