"I can," said Jennings promptly, "in some way Basil is mixed up in the matter, and his accusing you means his acknowledging that he was near Rose Cottage on the night of the crime. He funks making so damaging an admission."
"Ah, I daresay," said Cuthbert, "particularly as he quarrelled with his aunt a week before the death."
"Did he quarrel with her?"
"Of course. Didn't I tell you what he said to-day. He's in a fine rage with the dead woman. And you know what an uncontrollable temper he has. I've seen him rage at Maraquito's when he lost at baccarat. Silly ass! He can't play decently and lose his money like a gentleman. How Juliet ever came to have such a bounder for a brother I can't imagine. She's the soul of honor, and Basil—bah!"
"He quarrelled with his aunt," murmured Jennings, "and he has a violent temper, as we both knew. Humph! He may have something to do with the matter. Do you know where he was on that night?"
"Yes. Juliet and he went to the Marlow Theatre to see a melodrama by a new playwright."
"Ha!" said Jennings half to himself, "and the Marlow Theatre is not far from Rexton. I'll make a note of that. Had they a box?"
"I believe so. It was sent by the man who wrote the play."
"Who is he?"
"I can't say. One of that lot who play at being poets in Octagon House. A set of idiots. But what do you make of all this, Jennings?"