Sir George cross-examined me closely as to my relation with Cassavetti; we always spoke of him by that name, rather than by his own, which was so much less familiar; and on that point I could, of course, answer him frankly enough. Our acquaintanceship had been of the most casual kind; he had been to my rooms several times, but had never invited me to his. I had only been in them thrice; the first time when I unlocked the door with the pass-key with which the old Russian had tried to unlock my door, and then I hadn’t really gone inside, only looked round, and called; and the other occasions were when I broke open the door and found him murdered, and returned in company with the police.
“You saw nothing suspicious that first time?” he asked. “You are sure there was no one in the rooms then?”
“Well, I can’t be certain. I only just looked in; and then ran down again; I was in a desperate hurry, for I was late, as it was; I thought the whole thing a horrible bore, but I couldn’t leave the old man fainting on the stairs. Cassavetti certainly wasn’t in his rooms then, anyhow, and I shouldn’t think any one else was; for he told me afterwards, at dinner, that he came in before seven. He must have just missed the old man.”
“What became of the key?”
“I gave it back to the old man.”
“Although you thought it strange that such a person should be in possession of it?”
“Well, it wasn’t my affair, was it?” I remonstrated. “I didn’t give him the key in the first instance.”
“Now will you tell me, Mr. Wynn, why, when you left Lord Southbourne, you did not go straight home? That’s a point that may prove important.”
“I didn’t feel inclined to turn in just then, so I went for a stroll.”
“In the rain?”