“But they—surely they didn’t suspect you?” she said, in tones that were very little above a whisper.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I returned cheerfully, “why shouldn’t they suspect me? They know nothing about me, and certainly nothing that would count particularly in my favour. At all events, they questioned me. Had I seen anyone that night? And I lied to them. I had seen nobody at all. There are occasions, you know, when mendacity may be condoned.”
Kitty gazed at me with wide-open eyes for fully a minute, then pulled herself together with an effort and laughed with a quite passable imitation of merriment.
“And had you seen anyone?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, smiling into her face. “I had seen a very beautiful and clever woman and an extremely capable actress whose ideas regarding truth are apparently nearly as flexible as my own.”
She flushed a little, but remained apparently undisturbed by either the compliment or the sarcasm.
“And which had committed the crime?” she asked. “Was it the beautiful and clever woman—you said beautiful and clever, didn’t you?—or the capable actress? But still, I don’t understand. I thought you were a great detective—a sort of Sherlock Holmes in real life.”
I threw myself back on the cushioned seat with a quick laugh.
“Where did you get that fairy story from?” I demanded.
“But—it’s true, isn’t it?”