Thoyne glared at me speechlessly for a moment or two, then threw back his head with a great, bellowing roar of laughter.
“And is that your theory?” he demanded, when he had regained breath.
“No,” I replied, still speaking with careful deliberation. “I am not very keenly interested in Tulmin nor in yourself, except just in passing. It is someone—quite—different. Who stands to gain most from Sir Philip Clevedon’s death? Tell me that.”
His face went as white as Kitty Clevedon’s had done when I made a similar suggestion in her presence at Hapforth House.
“But I am not clear on details,” I went on, “and what I want to know—the real reason, indeed, for my being here—is why Miss Kitty Clevedon promised to marry Sir Philip, though it is quite obvious that her affections are—otherwise bestowed. Now let us take the course of events. You quarrelled with Sir Philip Clevedon over a woman—and that woman was Miss Kitty Clevedon.”
“It is a lie—a damned lie!” he said thickly, clenching his great fists.
“It was stated by Mrs. Halfleet at the inquest—”
“Kitty’s name—Miss Clevedon’s name was never—Mrs. Halfleet mentioned no name.”
“Miss Clevedon promised to marry Sir Philip and you quarrelled with him in consequence. Why did she promise?”
“It’s a lie—she never did.”