“I thought that was coming,” remarked Giles. “From seven o'clock, when I called for her at the studio, until about a quarter to twelve, when I took her back to the studio, I was with Miss Vereker. We dined at Favoli's, and went on afterwards to Wyndham's. After I left Miss Vereker I drove back to the Temple in a taxi - the same taxi that took us home from the Theatre. That ought to be easy to trace. When I reached the Temple I went to bed. I'm afraid my man was asleep by that time, so I can't offer you any proof that I stayed in bed till this morning. How long did the police-surgeon think my cousin had been dead?”
“According to Inspector Davies, at least seven or eight hours, and possibly more. He saw the body at about seven-forty-five this morning, I understand.”
“Well, I suppose I could just have done it,” reflected Giles. “Only I rather doubt, from my knowledge of him, whether I should have found Roger still up, and writing letters, at one in the morning.”
“You are not, at the moment, one of my suspects,” replied Hannasyde, with a glimmer of a smile. He turned, as Sergeant Hemingway came back into the room, escorting the hall-porter, and said in his pleasant way: “Good-morning. You are the porter here?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, looking rather fearfully round the room. “Leastways, the night-porter, more properly speaking.”
“What is your name?”
“Fletcher, sir. Henry George Fletcher.”
The Sergeant interpolated: “I've got the name and address, Superintendent.”
“All right. What time do you come on duty, Fletcher?”
“At eight p.m., sir and go off the same a.m.”