“I have no intention of pressing any charge against you,” I said with forced civility, for my hands were itching to get at him, “if you will give us a clear account of what happened on the Ontario that night.”
Sullivan raised his handsome, haggard head and looked around at me. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” he asked. “Weren’t you an uninvited guest at the Laurels a few days—or nights—ago? The cat, you remember, and the rug that slipped?”
“I remember,” I said shortly. He glanced from me to Alison and quickly away.
“The truth can’t hurt me,” he said, “but it’s devilish unpleasant. Alison, you know all this. You would better go out.”
His use of her name crazed me. I stepped in front of her and stood over him. “You will not bring Miss West into the conversation,” I threatened, “and she will stay if she wishes.”
“Oh, very well,” he said with assumed indifference. Hotchkiss just then escaped from Richey’s grasp and crossed the room.
“Did you ever wear glasses?” he asked eagerly.
“Never.” Sullivan glanced with some contempt at mine.
“I’d better begin by going back a little,” he went on sullenly. “I suppose you know I was married to Ida Harrington about five years ago. She was a good girl, and I thought a lot of her. But her father opposed the marriage—he’d never liked me, and he refused to make any sort of settlement.
“I had thought, of course, that there would be money, and it was a bad day when I found out I’d made a mistake. My sister was wild with disappointment. We were pretty hard up, my sister and I.”