“I know of that,” returned Harleston, “also that Clephane was a roué, and generally an exceedingly rotten lot.”
“Precisely—and her conduct as to him may be quite justifiable; yet nevertheless it weakens her credibility; puts her story as to the letter under suspicion. And there is one thing more: Clephane, you know, was killed in an aeroplane smash. Did Mrs. Clephane tell you anything as to it?”
“Merely referred to it.”
“Well, at a dinner the night before, he effervesced that his wife had repeatedly tried to poison him, and had told him only that evening that she hoped the flight of the morrow would be his last, and that he would fall so far it would be useless to dig for his remains. At the aviation field the following day he appeared queer, and his friends urged him not to try the flight; but he waved them aside, with the remark that maybe Mrs. Clephane had drugged him and at last would win out. His fall came a trifle later. Suspicion followed, of course.”
“How do you know all this?” Harleston asked.
“From a man who was one of his intimates, and has reformed; and from having myself been in the aviation field the day of the tragedy.”
“You heard Clephane’s remark?”
“I did.”
“Hum!” said Harleston slowly. “A man of Clephane’s habits will accuse anyone of anything at certain times. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t blame Mrs. Clephane, nor any other woman, for chucking such a husband out of the boat. It’s contrary to the Acts of Assembly in such cases made and provided, but it’s natural justice and amply justifiable.”
“You don’t credit it?” Carpenter asked.