“I see. Is it suggested that Lady Maxell detached the key of the safe and that it was she who opened it?”
“That is one theory,” said the other, “the police have miles of ’em! They’ve got everything except the bodies and the murderer. Now come out with that story, Anderson! You must know a great deal more than you’ve told, and I’m simply without a new fact that these evening papers haven’t got, to hang my story on. Why did Cartwright come to your room, anyway? Do you know him?”
“He was an acquaintance of my father’s,” said Timothy diplomatically, “and perhaps he thought I knew Maxell better than I did.”
“That sounds pretty thin,” said the reporter. “Why should he come to you?”
“Suppose I am the only person he knew or knew about,” said Timothy patiently. “Suppose he’d been all round Bournemouth trying to find a familiar name.”
“There’s something in that,” admitted the reporter.
“Anyway,” said Timothy, “I was a kid when he went to gaol. You don’t imagine I knew him at all, do you?”
He had gone out to meet the girl, forgetting to take his watch, and now he was looking round for it.
“Here is a theory,” said Brennan suddenly. “Suppose Lady Maxell isn’t dead at all.”
“What do you mean?” asked the other.