“No,” Curtis smiled; his object had been attained—he had succeeded in diverting attention from Anne to himself. “You have been so keen in tracing the crime to Miss Meredith that you have blundered badly—”
“What!” Mitchell’s eyes blazed with wrath.
“Here, there’s no use listening to you—”
“Oh, yes, there is.” Curtis spoke more rapidly and his manner grew stern. “In handling this case, Mitchell, you have failed to study one factor—the character of the murdered man. John Meredith had a warm heart, a peppery temper, and a confiding disposition. It made him a prey to a dastardly conspiracy—”
A shout in the hall interrupted him. A second later the portières were dragged aside and Gerald Armstrong lurched into the library. At his back came Damason, while Gretchen and Susanne, lured from their work on the second floor by the disturbance, stopped just outside the library and peered through the wide opening left by Armstrong’s impetuous handling of the handsome portières.
Armstrong’s bloodshot eyes darted about the room. Catching sight of Curtis, he sprang toward him.
“What do you want, Curtis?” he demanded, with a foul oath, regardless of the women present.
“Gerald!” Anne pressed her fingers over her ears. Paying not the slightest attention to her, Armstrong stopped directly in front of the blind surgeon.
“Answer my question,” he ordered. “What do you want?”
“Armstrong,” Curtis’ calm tone was in marked contrast to that of the infuriated man before him, “you have twice stated that you were not at Ten Acres when Meredith died. Were you here when he was murdered?”