“In the garden.”
“Whereabouts in the garden? Don’t you know that the garden has been turned over several times?”
“I’ve heard that, but I wanted to dig for myself.”
“It would take one man a week to dig over the garden. No one knows that better than you.”
“I was going to try just near the pear-tree. I count that’s a likely place.”
“And did you dig there?”
“No. Didn’t I tell you there was lights in the house when I got there?”
“A likely story,” sneered the detective. “You went there to dig in the garden, although you knew it had been turned over thoroughly. You didn’t take a spade with you, and you didn’t turn over as much as a single clod. But you came away with a bullet wound in the arm from a house in which the murdered body of the owner was subsequently found.”
Dull as young Tom was, he seemed to realize that the detective had a gift of making things appear as black as they could be.
“I’ve told you the truth,” he said obstinately.