“I tell you, you didn’t have your glasses on, and you made a mistake in the time.”
“But everybody says the shot was at twelve-thirty-five.”
“Phooey,” Junior said. “Because you didn’t have your glasses on and...”
“Then you think the shot was fired at eleven- thirty-five?” Mrs. Gentrie interrupted.
“Why, sure, if I wasn’t in my room... no, wait a minute... Yes, sure, that’s right. The shot was fired at eleven -thirty-five.”
She said, “Arthur, you’re stalling for time. You’re trying to think whether you can give her a good alibi for eleven-thirty-five.”
Arthur jumped to his feet. “Oh, let me alone,” he cried. “You make me tired! You’re always twisting everything I do so as to make it seem I’m trying to think of Opal. Can’t you leave her out of it ever?”
Mrs. Gentrie glanced at Mason.
Mason, without raising his voice, but putting the timbre of authority into his command, said, “Sit down, Arthur. I want to talk with you.”
Arthur’s eyes met the lawyer’s. The young man hesitated for a moment, then seated himself somewhat tentatively on the edge of a chair.