“Did you go downstairs?” questioned John.
“No, I did not feel equal to the exertion,” Hale explained. “I returned to bed.”
“What? Without going to see what Polly was doing here and why she should be crying?” asked John incredulously.
Hale smiled cynically. “I have been brought up on woman’s tears,” he remarked. “Agatha has let loose the floodgates so often that I am schooled to indifference. I supposed Polly had been with Judith in the library, and it was not until I was told of Austin’s death that I ascribed another reason for her presence here after midnight.”
John looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Don’t try me too far,” he warned. “It wouldn’t take much to kill you,” and he extended his powerful hands, fingers distended as if to grip their prey.
His brother watched him unmoved.
“It is easy to kill a man—witness Austin’s murder,” he commented. “But it is unpleasant to swing for the crime. I am glad Polly has bolted.”
“You jump to conclusions,” retorted John. “Because you saw Polly coming out of the library it does not prove that she killed Austin, nor does it prove that she knew he was here, nor that she talked with him.”
“That is true,” agreed Hale; “but in addition to seeing her leave the library I know that she had borrowed Agatha’s latchkey. I know she expected to see Austin—”
“Prove it,” John shouted. “I demand proof.”