Flamborough jotted something in his notebook before going further.
“I suppose you could produce some witnesses in support of that?” he asked.
Silverdale appeared to consult his memory.
“I met Miss Hailsham as I was leaving here,” he explained. “That would give you the approximate time, if she remembers it. The waiter at the Central could probably satisfy you that I was there—it's the tall one with the wart on his cheek who looks after the tables at the north window. After that, you'll have to take my word for it.”
“What about your maids at Heatherfield?”
“I haven't anyone on the premises. No maid would take the place owing to the murder. I merely sleep there and take my meals at an hotel. A charwoman comes in during the day and cleans the place.”
“Ah,” said the Inspector, thoughtfully. “Then you can't prove that you were actually at home after, say, half-past eight? By the way, you hadn't a visitor by any chance?”
Silverdale shook his head.
“No, I was quite alone.”
Flamborough made another note; and then continued his interrogation.