‘Well?’ said Miss Twexby, letting the work fall on her lap.
‘What time did he come home the night he stopped here?’
‘Twelve o’clock.’
‘Get along with you,’ said Slivers, in disgust, ‘you mean three o’clock.’
‘No, I don’t,’ retorted Martha, indignantly; ‘you’ll be telling me I don’t know the time next.’
‘Did he go out again?
‘No, he went to bed.’
This quite upset Slivers’ idea—as if Vandeloup had gone to bed at twelve, he certainly could not have murdered Villiers nearly a mile away at two o’clock in the morning. Slivers was puzzled, and then the light broke on him—perhaps it was the dumb man.
‘Did the other stay here all night also?’
Miss Twexby nodded. ‘Both in the same room,’ she answered.