Douglas Thorne met the prosecutor’s gaze steadily, with a countenance free of either defiance or concern. “Because, frankly, I had no desire whatever to be involved, however remotely, in a murder case. I was still debating my duty in the matter two days later, when my sister and Mr. Bellamy were arrested, and the papers announced that the state had positive information that the murder was committed between quarter to nine and quarter to ten on the night of the nineteenth. That seemed to render my meagre observations quite valueless, and I accordingly kept them to myself.”
“And I suppose you fully realize now that you have put yourself in a highly equivocal position by doing so?”
“Why, no, Mr. Farr; I may be unduly obtuse, but I assure you that I realize nothing of the kind.”
“Let me endeavour to enlighten you. According to your own story, you must have heard that scream between nine-thirty and twenty-five minutes to ten, granting that you spent three or four minutes on the cottage porch and took ten minutes to walk back to the house. According to you, you arrived at the scene of action within three minutes of that scream, to find everything dark, silent and orderly. It is the state’s contention that somewhere in that orderly darkness, practically within reach of your outstretched hand, stood your idolized sister. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“It is quite a coincidence that that should be your contention,” remarked Douglas Thorne, a dangerous glint in his eye. “But I know of no scandal attached to coincidence.”
“Well, this particular type of coincidence has landed more than one man in jail as accessory after the fact,” remarked the prosecutor grimly. “What time did you get back to Lakedale that night?”
“At ten-thirty.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“My wife was on the porch when I arrived.”
“Anyone else?”