“I daresay things do look rather black against me,” Sidney said; “it’s my fault for not having bothered to defend myself. You see, it seems so eccentric to me that anyone should think such a thing. It seems so impossible, and absurd, if you don’t mind my saying so. One forgets that other people don’t know what one is capable of as one does oneself, and it never struck me yesterday that you, or Sir Gregory either, might suspect me. I did go and see the editor of the worst of the newspapers, and explained things to him, and told him to let old Chark know he was wrong. You may have noticed he’s eaten his words in to-day’s paper. But I didn’t think it necessary to say anything to anyone else. You see, I’ve got what you call an alibi. I was in the country from Monday evening till yesterday morning. I met a pal almost on Aunt Ruth’s doorstep when she turned me out of the house, and he got me to go off with him down to his house near Ascot to play golf, and I was down there till Wednesday. I had only just come back, in fact, when I came to see you. I didn’t know about my aunt’s disappearance till I read it in the train coming up; my friend came up at the same time and stayed with me till I left him at your door. It’s waste of time suspecting me; I admit that it looks as if I ought to have murdered the poor dear, but in view of the facts that theory doesn’t hold water.”
“I’m very glad to hear what you say,” said Gimblet, “and I wish you’d told me before, though I never really thought you had any direct knowledge of the affair. Still, you must confess, Mr. Sidney, that you were not quite open with me: there was something which you knew, and which you kept to yourself when we talked about it.”
“I’m blessed if there was!” cried Sidney. “What was it?”
For answer Gimblet took Barbara’s telegraph form out of his notebook and handed it to the young man.
“You didn’t tell me you had received this telegram from Miss Turner,” he said, “not even though I quoted most of its contents to you by way of a hint.”
Sidney took the form, and stared at it for a moment.
“It is her writing,” he said at last. “I wonder what the deuce she meant.”
He, also, produced a folded paper from his pocket and pushed it across the table to the detective.
It was the message as he had received it.