Polly drew a long, painful breath. “Wait,” she cautioned. “I was here on Tuesday night.”
“Hush!” commanded John, a look of agony on his strong face.
“No, I must speak.” Polly partly turned from him and addressed the others. “I wrote Austin on Saturday breaking our engagement, but as Monday was Washington’s Birthday he never received the letter until Tuesday morning. In answer I had a wire from Austin stating that he would get here Tuesday about midnight. I”—her voice quivered a bit, then steadied—“it was imperative that I see him without delay, so I came, admitting myself with Mrs. Hale’s latchkey which I had borrowed one day last week. I walked into the library”—she caught her breath.
“Stop, Polly,” pleaded John Hale. “Stop. You don’t know what you are saying.” Seeing that she paid no attention to his words, he appealed to the detective. “For God’s sake tell her to stop—it’s not fair—it’s cruel—she shall not convict herself.”
“What are you insinuating?” cried Polly. “Convict myself? Are you mad? Austin was stabbed before I entered this house.”
The five men eyed each other in silence, then concentrated their attention upon her, forgetful of Mrs. Hale, of Anna—waiting for her to continue.
“I saw Austin lying on the floor,” she went on, her voice husky with emotion. “The shock made me cry out, then my whole impulse was to run, to hide. I reached the central hall and paused to gather strength; a faint noise on the staircase caused me to look in that direction and I made out dimly a man peering at me over the bannisters”— She paused. “Mr. Robert Hale, why are you using a dictograph in this house?”
Hale looked at her in dumb surprise—twice he opened his lips to speak and twice closed them with the words unspoken. Richards, standing somewhat in the background, bent forward in a listening attitude.
“What’s that noise?” he demanded. “Listen!”
Through the silence came a faint drumming, it grew louder, then died away, to break out again a little louder, more insistently.