“I did not speak to anyone except Miss Carew and Miss Thornton while in this house,”—steadily.
“No? Then perhaps you only saw the maid, Annette, when she was asleep?”—with emphasis.
“I don’t catch your meaning?” Lane tapped his foot nervously with his swagger stick.
“Listen to me, Captain Lane,”—Brett dropped back in his chair and emphasized his remarks by frequent taps on the table with his left hand. “You can’t dodge the issue with fake testimony.”
“I am dodging nothing!” Lane’s eyes flashed ominously and his voice deepened, the voice of a born fighter, accustomed to command. “I have no testimony to fake.”
“I suppose you will say next,”—sarcastically,—“that you don’t know the maid, Annette, is dead.”
“Dead?” echoed Lane, bounding from his chair.
“Dead—murdered last night.”
“Good God!” There was no mistaking Lane’s agitation and surprise. Brett watched him closely; if he was acting, it was a perfect performance. “How—what killed her?”