“When did you see Miss Hemingway last?”
There was a long pause while Macondray gazed fixedly first at Lanagan and then at Wilson, as though trying to read their minds to learn what they knew.
“Because you did see her after the letter, you know,” said Lanagan quietly. It was entirely a random shot, but it went home. Macondray studied the matter over again for some moments.
“Well,” he said at last slowly, “I suppose it is best that I tell all I know. I saw her last—at half-past eight o’clock to-night.”
His head dropped to his breast and dry sobs shook him again for a minute.
“But as to her death I can offer no explanation. Only—you have Martin in custody, and I saw Martin in her room at that time. My God!” he burst out, “that Elvira could have sunk so low! A menial, a lackey—a chauffeur!”
“We don’t want a dissertation on caste,” said Lanagan with cold brutality. “What we want of you, Macondray, either here or at the city prison—” Macondray started, realising for the first time that suspicion was pointing his way—“is a simple statement of how you happened to see Miss Hemingway in this room with Martin and what happened after that?”
“I received her note by messenger at five o’clock. At half-past seven I called, but she was not in. I wanted a personal explanation. I called again in an hour. She was home, Marie said, and had gone to her room for the night and under no circumstances was to be disturbed. I determined to see her at any cost. I knew the position of her room here, fronting on the veranda. I went from the house by the front door and walked around here to the lawn. I intended only to attract her attention by throwing a pebble against the window and compelling her to speak with me. But while I stood there on the lawn, searching for a pebble, an automobile drove slowly down Buchanan Street and stopped just beyond the Hemingway drive behind the pepper tree. There were two men in it. One remained while the other, whom I recognised as Martin, came to the house, entering by the kitchen door. Of course, then I would not risk attracting Elvira’s attention.
“While I was just turning to go, Elvira’s curtain suddenly was raised, and I saw her peering out down Buchanan Street toward the place where the motor car was. Just when that tableau was being presented her chamber door opened quickly, and Martin entered. She seemed to be glad to see him, and extended both her hands to him.
“I could witness no more. It broke my heart. Sick and miserable that I had discovered so fine a girl, the girl whom I loved sincerely, in a meeting with her chauffeur, I turned and came away. That is all I know. Later I received a telephone message of the tragedy. They sent the car for me. I could not understand it then; I cannot now.”