“She could have killed him in bed,” replied Trenholm.
“But the other night you pointed out to Miss Ward and me that the lack of bloodstains on the sheets proved the crime was not committed in the bed,” objected Alan heatedly.
Trenholm eyed him thoughtfully. “You forget Miss Ward is a nurse,” he pointed out slowly. “It would be a simple matter for her to change the bed linen with the dead man lying in it.”
Betty leaned forward in her earnestness. “And what became of the bloodstained sheets?” she asked.
Trenholm uncrossed his long legs and leaned closer to her chair. “Ask Corbin,” he suggested.
Betty’s grasp of her walking stick tightened, and she grew conscious of the atmosphere of the overheated room. Turning from Trenholm’s direct gaze she saw Alan fumbling with his collar, his face a pasty white, and she seized her opportunity to divert attention from herself.
“Are you ill, Alan?” she asked, her eyes big with concern. “Doctor, can’t we have some fresh air in the room?”
Roberts threw up the window nearest to him, then went to Alan’s aid. Alan took the flask Trenholm proffered and drank eagerly, putting it down almost empty.
“I’m better,” he announced. “The room’s infernally hot. Say, Guy,” turning impulsively to him, “your theory’s no good. What possible motive could Miss Ward have had to kill Paul?”
“Frankly, I don’t know”—there was something disarming about Trenholm’s smile and Alan’s anger cooled. “Miss Carter asked for a theory and I gave her one.”