“And when will you arrest him?” Lady Clevedon demanded.
“Ah, yes,” I returned slowly, “that is just it. You see, the difference between knowing and proving is several thousand miles and this brick wall—”
“Oh, you and your brick walls!” the old lady cried, waving her hands with an impatient and fretful gesture. “I want to see the murderer hanged and the whole thing cleared away and forgotten. He was stabbed with my hatpin and there are people silly enough to—”
“But, Auntie, Mr. Holt must be able to prove his case before he can arrest—anyone,” Miss Kitty Clevedon chimed in.
She spoke naturally and the colour had returned to her cheeks. My graphic description of the difference between knowledge and proof had apparently brought its consolation.
The old lady snorted disagreeably but seemed to have no convincing retort ready.
“And what is the brick wall you chatter so much about?” she demanded.
“I want to know,” I said slowly, examining the back of my left hand with apparent solicitude, “what hold the late Sir Philip Clevedon had over Miss Clevedon that she broke off her engagement with Mr. Ronald Thoyne and consented to marry the late baronet?”
There was for a moment or two a dead silence in the room, a silence that could be felt and almost touched. It was the old lady who finally exploded in a manifestation of wrath.
“My niece was never engaged to Ronald Thoyne,” she cried. “You are impertinent.”