“Would you swear that you have not seen Vassalaro for a week?”
“Certainly,” smiled the Greek.
“That you did not in fact see him last night,” persisted T. X., “and interview him on the station platform at Lewes, that you did not after leaving him continue on your way to London and then turn your car and return to the neighbourhood of Beston Tracey?”
The Greek was white to the lips, but not a muscle of his face moved.
“Will you also swear,” continued T. X. inexorably, “that you did not stand at the corner of what is known as Mitre's Lot and re-enter a gate near to the side where your car was, and that you did not watch the whole tragedy?”
“I'd swear to that,” Kara's voice was strained and cracked.
“Would you also swear as to the hour of your arrival in London?”
“Somewhere in the region of ten or eleven,” said the Greek.
T. X. smiled.
“Would you swear that you did not go through Guilford at half-past twelve and pull up to replenish your petrol?”