Armstrong shifted his gaze from Anne to the blind surgeon, from there his eyes wandered to Lucille, standing terrified by Leonard McLane’s side.
“What are you driving at?” he demanded roughly.
“This—” Curtis rested his weight on his cane, leaving his right hand free. “Meredith lived for over five minutes after being stabbed in the throat. You had ample time to be out of the house before he died.”
As if hypnotized, Armstrong regarded the sightless man before him. The entrance of Detective Sergeant Brown through one of the French windows failed to arouse him. As Brown drew closer Anne saw a small brown object huddled in his left arm.
“Jocko!” she cried. At her familiar voice the monkey raised its head and made a feeble attempt to spring toward her. “Why, he’s ill—injured—” seeing the bloody stump which the monkey carried pressed to its breast. “How did he lose his paw?”
“It was cut off last night, Anne,” began Curtis, “by the man who sent the monkey into my room to steal—a key.”
Anne’s violent start went unobserved by Inspector Mitchell. His eyes had happened to be fixed on Mrs. Meredith and he saw her crimson and then turn deadly white. It was the first time she had shown emotion since entering the library.
Detective Sergeant Brown put the monkey down in an armchair, and Anne moved impulsively forward and sat by it, for the moment her own agonizing situation forgotten in her pity for the evident suffering of her little pet.
The Sergeant addressed Curtis while facing his superior officer.
“I found the monkey in the grove of trees down beyond, where you suggested he might be, sir,” he said. “And I found the bolo knife—”