“You don’t remember doing that?”
“Most certainly not. I tell you the last thing I remember was shaking hands with Mr. Mason in the department store.”
“Then,” Holcomb said triumphantly, “if you can’t remember where you were or what you did, you can’t positively swear that you didn’t take a thirty-eight caliber revolver and shoot Mr. Austin Cullens last night about seven-thirty, can you?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I can’t tell you what I did, and it follows that I can’t tell you what I didn’t. I may have assassinated the President. I may have wrecked a train. I may have forged a check. I might have got married. I don’t know what I did or what I didn’t do.”
“Then you won’t deny that you killed Austin Cullens, will you?”
“I most certainly have no recollection of having killed Austin Cullens.”
“But you won’t deny that you did it?”
“I can’t remember having done so.”
“But you may have done so.”
“That,” she said, “is another matter. I’m certain that I can’t tell what might have happened. I only know that I never killed anyone before yesterday afternoon, and I have no reason to believe that yesterday afternoon was any different from any other afternoon in my life.”