"Hotel Central, come quick. Margaret," he read and Sir Edgar's voice broke in upon his thoughts in a high pitch of excitement:
"You can be sure I just rushed up there as fast as trains would carry me—only to find it a hoax. I waited about all night, and came back this morning, none the worse. But I'd like to lay hands on the man who sent me on that wild-goose chase."
Cleek looked at him for a brief second in silence, his face set, his chin cupped in the palm of his left hand. If this thing were true, it put Sir Edgar out of the affair altogether. But was it true? Was it not rather an attempt to establish an alibi, and thus throw dust in the eyes of the police? The hotel? Oh, yes, that part was easy, simplicity itself. He would go there and register, wait about for a girl whom he knew couldn't possibly be there, and then, after going up to the room, it would be the easiest thing in the world to step down unnoticed, thus getting back in time to have committed the deed. He recalled Jennifer's words: "Edgar—so he did leave——" Leave maybe—but what about the revolver? As for Constable Roberts' hypothesis that the young man had just arrived—why, he might well have been just leaving. And now this telegram! Cleek looked at it again, then gave vent to a low cry of astonishment.
"Hello," he said, "here's a pretty kettle of fish. This is an old telegram; look, here's the date, last Friday, by Jove!"
He held it before Sir Edgar's astonished gaze. "All the original words have been rubbed out," he continued as the young man stared at it. "You can see the roughened paper."
Then he turned on him suddenly.
"Now, my friend," he said, "considering that your revolver was found just near the body of the murdered man I think you will agree that this will take some explanation. Don't you think so?"
Sir Edgar started as though someone had stabbed him. A wave of colour suffused his face for a moment, then left it waxen white.
"Good God, you don't attempt to suggest that I——" he began, then appeared to lose the power of speaking altogether as he gazed into Cleek's stern eyes.
"I am not in the habit of suggesting," interrupted Cleek, "I am simply stating a fact which, as you know, is one that is in itself suspicious. It is useless also to blink at the fact that the real Miss Cheyne was murdered on that night when I found you wandering up and down the lane, with that same revolver in your pocket. Perhaps you can explain that also?"