“And you told her of the prenuptial agreement and the codicil to his will, to which you had witnessed Meredith’s signature.” Mitchell paused before asking, “Wasn’t that breaking a confidence, sir?”
“Most emphatically not. Meredith did not pledge us to secrecy,” retorted Armstrong.
Mitchell scrutinized his flushed face for a moment in silence. “How was Miss Meredith dressed?” At the query Armstrong moved uncomfortably.
“I am sure I don’t know,” he grumbled. “She was suitably clad, if you mean that.”
“I never doubted but that she was,” replied Mitchell, disgust creeping into his voice. “How was she dressed, Mr. Armstrong? Did she have on the gown she wore at dinner or a street suit?”
“I don’t know,” sullenly. “It was dark—”
“In the house or out of doors?”
Armstrong’s eyes shifted from Mitchell to Sergeant Brown, who approached them at that moment, and from him back again to Mitchell.
“What’s that to you, Inspector?” demanded Armstrong.
“That’s my affair,” roughly. “Come, sir, I insist upon a direct reply. Where did you meet Miss Meredith on Sunday night?” Receiving no answer, he asked more urgently: “Was it inside the house or out? Answer at once, sir.”