"I was not aware that I was trying to do so."
The doctor almost danced with rage.
"Lord Wilmersley—for I suppose you are Lord Wilmersley?"
"Unless I am his valet, Peter Thompkins."
"I know nothing about you," cried the doctor, "and you have succeeded to your title under very peculiar circumstances, my lord."
"So you suspect me not only of flogging my wife but of murdering my cousin!" laughed Cyril. "My dear doctor, don't you realise that if there were the slightest grounds for your suspicions, the police would have put me under surveillance long ago. Why, I can easily prove that I was in Paris at the time of the murder."
"Oh, you are clever! I don't doubt that you have an impeccable alibi. But if I informed the police that you were passing off as your wife a girl several years younger than Lady Wilmersley, a girl, moreover, who, you acknowledged, joined you at Newhaven the very morning after the murder—if I told them that this young lady had in her possession a remarkable number of jewels, which she carried in a cheap, black bag—what do you think they would say to that, my lord?"
Cyril felt cold chills creeping down his back and the palms of his hands grew moist. Not a flicker of an eyelash, however, betrayed his inward tumult. "They would no doubt pay as high a tribute to your imagination as I do," he answered.
Then, abandoning his careless pose, he sat up in his chair.
"You have been insulting me for the last half-hour, and I have borne it very patiently, partly because your absurd suspicions amused me, and partly because I realised that, although you are a fool, you are an honest fool."