“Wait!” Curtis’ imperative tones interrupted the inspector. “Before you proceed further—” In his earnestness Curtis drew a step nearer and stumbled over a footstool. He involuntarily flung out his hand and caught hold of the person standing by him. “Mrs. Hull, the wound which you accidentally inflicted did not cause John Meredith’s death.”
A cry broke from Mrs. Hull and she swayed on her feet, while the others in the room gazed at the blind surgeon in stupefied silence.
“I assisted at the post-mortem examination,” continued Curtis, speaking with slow distinctness. “My fingers are my eyes and they detected a superficial downward gash on Meredith’s throat just above the point where the larger blood vessels were severed.”
Mrs. Hull hung on his words, her agonized expression giving place to one of dawning hope.
“I didn’t kill John—thank God! Oh, thank God!” she gasped. “Doctor, you mean—?”
“That when you fled in terrified horror from the bedroom pursued by Meredith, he was followed by a witness of the scene. This witness,” Curtis turned his head slowly, his sightless eyes sweeping the room, “caught up with Meredith as the latter fell, half unconscious, at the head of the staircase, and bending down cut Meredith’s throat.”
In the tense silence Anne heard her mother’s sudden intake of breath. Turning slightly she saw that Mrs. Meredith sat watching Curtis in deadly fascination, unconscious apparently that her fingers were twitching convulsively about her scented handkerchief. Inspector Mitchell’s aggressive voice brought Anne’s attention back to the others.
“Who was this witness?” he demanded.
“The man who planned the interview—Gerald Armstrong.”
As his name was pronounced Armstrong strove to wrench his wrist from Curtis’ iron grasp.