“Robert!—” Margaret’s voice was choking, and her face was woefully white once more—“were you—here—when Alan—was killed?”
“No, not exactly. This thing bewilders me. Let me explain. I saw him that afternoon. We had a furious quarrel. I never told you about it, Rita. It was a family matter. I do not hold you responsible. I—”
“Hold me responsible! What do you mean? Did you kill my brother?”
She rose to her feet. Her eyes seemed to peer into his soul. He, too, rose and faced her.
“By God,” he cried, “this is too much! Why didn’t you ask your husband that question?”
“Because my husband, with all his faults, is innocent of that crime. He was with me in London the night that Alan met his death.”
“And I, too, was in London. I left Stowmarket at six o’clock.”
“Having reached the place at 2.20?” interposed Brett.
The other turned to him with eager pleading.
“In Heaven’s name, Mr. Brett, if you know all about my movements that day, disabuse Margaret’s mind of the terrible idea that prompted her question.”