“What is this?” the sheriff demanded in bewilderment.
“We can prove that the Hubell clock did strike thirteen on that particular night,” Penny resumed. “It was a signal used by the Hoods, but that’s not the point.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Just this. The Hubell clock can’t be heard at the Preston farm.”
“True.”
“One can still hear the clock at Toni’s but not a quarter of a mile beyond it. You see, if Mr. Davis heard the thirteenth stroke, he couldn’t have had time to reach the Preston farm and set the fire.”
“That’s an interesting argument,” the sheriff said, smiling. “And you plead Clem’s case very earnestly. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll investigate all these angles you’ve brought up, and if the evidence supports your theory, I promise he’ll go free.”
“That’s fair enough,” declared Mr. Parker.
The sheriff did not handcuff his prisoner. As they were leaving the house, Clem Davis turned to thank Penny for her interest in his behalf.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, taking a rectangular metal object from beneath his baggy coat. “Here’s something for you.”