“Detective Hardy,” supplemented Tom, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable; but the Frenchman apparently did not notice the air of constraint in each man’s attitude, but greeted Hardy with all the courtesy of his nation.
“Won’t you seet?” he asked, pulling the lounging chairs nearer the fire. “Eet ees cold outside, n’est-ce pas?”
“Thanks. We have only come for a moment,” answered Dick, “just to ask you—” He hesitated, glancing at Hardy.
“To ask you,” said Hardy, stepping forward, “what took place between you and Mrs. Trevor on the night of Wednesday, February third?”
A look of blank astonishment crossed de Morny’s face.
“Ze night of ze sird!” he exclaimed. “But I do not see Madame zen. I do not remembaire—one moment—” As he spoke, he drew a small Morocco-bound memorandum book from his vest pocket, and rapidly turned its leaves. “Mais, oui—I was at ze Bachelors’ zat night,” he added, triumphantly.
“You did not go there until after midnight,” said Dick.
“Oui, Monsieur,” said de Morny. He eyed the men sharply. It just occurred to him that their behavior was somewhat peculiar. “And what then?” haughtily.
“We wish to know where you were between the hours of ten o’clock and one in the morning on the night of the third.”
“Why should you question me, Monsieur Hardy?” turning squarely on the detective.