“I know you did. Just consider:—You were in a wrought-up condition, you expected to see him, came down for that purpose. The room was almost dark, quite dark under the gallery where you say he came from. After what you’d gone through—first a murder, then a suspicion that would have undermined the strongest nerves—you were in a state to see anything.”
She continued to stare at the light, her face set in troubled thought.
“I suppose that could be.”
“Why, Anne dear, it must have been, it could have happened to any one. And there’s another point—if it had been Joe, wouldn’t he have spoken to you, one question even to find out what was going on, what we were doing?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve thought of that. It didn’t occur to me at the time. But he would have said something.”
“Of course he would. You never saw anything more substantial than a shadow in the moonlight.”
“That must be it,” she murmured.
“I ought to have realized it but I was stampeded myself. We were all ready to go off like a pack of fire-crackers. God”—he took her hand and held its soft coldness against his forehead—“its a wonder we didn’t all break to pieces like Stokes.”
She was silent for a moment then said:
“Well, where is Joe? What’s he doing?”