Fayre went on steadily.
“How long have you known Mrs. Draycott and what were you and she doing in Paris in the spring of 1920? You had been married to Sybil for less than a year and I know you too well to insult you by the suggestion that it was merely a vulgar intrigue.”
Kean threw his cigarette into the fire.
“You’re right there,” he answered evenly; “it wasn’t. You haven’t entirely lost your sense of proportion yet, Hatter. I had my own reasons for wishing to see Mrs. Draycott, and, as she happened to be in Paris at the time, I went there. I stayed at the Bristol and she was in a small hotel on the other side of the river. Does that satisfy you?”
Fayre walked over to the writing-table and drew out the top drawer. From it he took two “Red Dwarf” pens and threw them on the table. With the exception of a brown earth stain down the side of one of them, they were identical, even to the black ink-stains that smeared the handles.
“One of these is the pen I picked up at the farm. Can you explain the other, or give any reason why you did not use this in your defence? We have proof that it did not belong to Leslie and that it was dropped some time before the murder. It would at least have proved the presence of a third person at the farm that night.”
Once more Kean hesitated. Then he raised his head and spoke quite frankly.
“Because it was the property of the person I wished to shield. I give you fair warning, Hatter, that, however deeply you may have managed to implicate me, I do not intend to divulge the name of the owner of that pen. Any more exhibits?”
Fayre was stung by the contempt in his voice. He took his note-case out of his pocket and extracted a snapshot which he placed on the table beside the pens.
“Yes,” he answered, and there was grief rather than anger in his voice. “This. I would have spared you this if I could, Edward.”