“Any one else?”
“N—no.”
“Quite sure?” and Ferguson tried to meet his eye.
“No—yes.” With an effort John Hale recovered some semblance of his usual manner. “I may have spoken of the cane but I don’t recall doing so. I bought it from an antique dealer and it’s been a fad of mine to carry it.”
“I see.” Ferguson considered him steadily for a moment. “Where were you on Tuesday night?”
“At the French Embassy reception.”
“Mrs. Hale,”—the detective spoke her name with such sharpness that she jumped involuntarily—“was your brother-in-law with you at the Embassy between midnight Tuesday and one o’clock Wednesday morning?”
Mrs. Hale looked at no one in particular and wrung her hands.
“Must I answer?” she begged, turning imploringly to her husband and, as she caught his expression, exclaimed: “No, I refuse to.”
“Don’t put yourself out for me, Agatha.” There was a sudden utter weariness in John Hale’s tone, and Richards started and looked at him intently. What did it portend? “I will answer your question, Ferguson. I was not at the French Embassy during that time.”