“He was dead when I saw him,” she said, “and I know nothing of—”
“You went through your aunt’s sitting-room,” I continued, as if I had not heard her, “and you noticed the hatpin which Miss Clevedon had left there the previous night. You recognised it and picked it up.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” she muttered sullenly.
“It was in your hand when you entered the study and saw Sir Philip asleep on the—”
“He was dead, I tell you dead!” she cried shrilly.
“Well, perhaps—you say so, anyway. You went up to the couch and plunged the hatpin into his body in such a way that had he been asleep, it would have killed him.”
“He was dead,” she repeated.
“Before you stabbed him with the hatpin?” I inquired softly.
“I didn’t—I know nothing of the hatpin—I don’t know what you mean.”
The words came out a little incoherently. Even her finely balanced nerves were becoming a little jangled. For the moment I thought she was on the verge of collapse. But she pulled herself together again, and sat facing me rigidly alert.