“But you did not return then?”
“No; I overslept.”
The explanation was very pat, and the smile left Mitchell’s eyes, to be replaced by an angry glitter.
“And when did you first learn of John Meredith’s murder?” he demanded.
“I learned of his death,” with emphasis on the last word, “on Monday shortly before noon.”
“And who informed you of Meredith’s murder?” Mitchell repeated the word intentionally and Armstrong flushed.
“Colonel Julian Hull, my senior partner, told me the news,” he stated. “It seems his daughter, Miss Lucille Hull, telephoned to him. I was not aware until last evening, when I called at the Hulls’, that the police authorities considered Meredith’s death was a case of murder and not suicide.”
“And what is your belief in the matter?” asked Mitchell.
Armstrong shrugged his shoulders. “I have formed no theories,” he answered. “The whole affair is frightfully tragic. That John Meredith would take his own life was incredible, but to any one who knew his lovable character as I did,” meeting Mitchell’s gaze without wavering, “it is inconceivable that any one should have killed him.”
“Inconceivable perhaps, but he was killed,” responded Mitchell grimly, “and we intend to locate the murderer. At what hour did you leave Ten Acres Sunday night, and did John Meredith know that you planned to leave?”