"You couldn't prove it," he said, moodily, "but I can, I must. Prout, I am the sport of either a most amazing piece of misfortune or else the victim of the most cunning and diabolical scheme that man ever dreamed of. I was actually in the corner house within an hour or so of the murder."
A queer little cry broke from Hetty. Her face was deadly pale, her eyes dilated with horror. It was only for a moment, then she slipped her hand into that of her lover and pressed it warmly. Even Prout seemed uneasy.
"You are not bound to say anything further, sir," he muttered meaningly.
"Ah, I know what you mean," Bruce went on recklessly. "Don't you see that as an honest man I am bound to speak out? Just as I reached my rooms that night a motor drove up to my house with a note for me----"
"Ah! I should like to have a look at that note," said Front.
"I destroyed it. There was no object in keeping it. I tore it up then and there and pitched it on the pavement. The motor was driven by a dumb man, who conveyed me to the corner house. It struck me as strange, but then the owner might have returned. When I got there I found the man subsequently murdered suffering from a combination of alcoholic poisoning and laudanum. It was hard work, but I managed to save him. A Spanish woman--the only creature besides my patient I saw--paid me a fee of three guineas, and there ends the matter."
Prout's expression was that of a man who by no means shared this opinion, but he said nothing on that head.
"Did you speak to the Spanish woman?" he asked.
"I couldn't, for the simple reason that she knew no English," said Bruce. "I know I am putting a terrible weapon in your hands but I have no alternative. If there is anything else that I can tell you----"
Prout rose and bowed to Hetty.