Fay stretched out her hand to her stepson. "Oh, Geoffrey, I'm so glad! I always knew you couldn't possibly have done such an awful thing, but it's splendid that you've found an alibi. Only Francis has been telling us — no, I can't bring myself to repeat it. It's too revolting!"
"Yes," drawled Francis, "it's all very shocking, Geoffrey. Truth will be in all probability out, so you may just as well hear it now as later. I was in this house at eleven-thirty on Monday for the express purpose of abstracting one hundred and thirty pounds from Uncle's safe. And what is more, I did abstract it."
"What?" said Geoffrey, staring. "You were here that morning? Then -"
"Not so fast, dear cousin. I said I was here at eleven thirty. You will all of you find it very difficult to prove that I murdered Uncle Arthur. The problem that is really interesting me is whether you and Fay can prosecute me for theft, or whether I, as a principal legatee, should have to prosecute myself? You do see my point, don't you?"
"You seem to me to be quite shameless!" said Fay, in a low, disgusted voice.
"I am," said Francis, settling himself more comfortably in his chair. "Quite shameless."
Chapter Seventeen
Contrary to Sergeant Nethersole's expectations, Harding did not busy himself that afternoon in attempting to disprove Captain Billington-Smith's story. This task he left to his subordinate, who, however, could not but feel that it should have received more minute attention. He ventured to say that he was surprised the Inspector didn't make more of the story, which, to his mind, made it look very much as though they had discovered the General's murderer.
"Sergeant," said Harding, "haven't all the stories we've listened to done that?"
"In a manner of speaking I suppose they have, sir," admitted the Sergeant. "You don't make more of this one than the rest?"