“Where were you?”
There was a tense silence. When John Hale answered he spoke hardly above a whisper.
“I had returned to this house to meet my stepson, Austin.”
Mrs. Hale collapsed. “Oh, dear! oh, dear, I’ve feared it all along,” she wailed, and burst into tears. “Oh, Polly, Polly, you have a lot to answer for!”
“Have I?” asked a strained voice, and Polly Davis, who had been a stunned witness of the scene, advanced a few steps further into the room, Anna, the waitress, peering over her shoulder with wide, curious eyes. “Well, I am here to face the consequences.”
John Hale, who had not taken his eyes from her ghastly face, sprang to her side.
“No!” he exclaimed vehemently. “No. Go home.”
“Presently,” she silenced him with an imperative gesture, before turning to the detective.
“Whom do you accuse of the murder of Austin Hale?” she asked.
Ferguson scratched a bewildered head. “I did believe Major Richards guilty,” he admitted slowly. “But seeing that Mr. Hale states he came back here to meet his stepson, that Austin was killed at that time with a rapier thrust, and that Mr. Hale’s sword cane has bloodstains on it—” He paused. “Well, taking all that into consideration and with the knowledge that he and Austin were not on good terms—I guess—it looks as if Mr. Hale killed him.”