Latimer pondered a moment before replying. “Yes, it tallies,” he agreed, “but you have no evidence to substantiate it. For instance, to open the safe Richards had to know the combination.”
“Well, he might have picked it up.”
“True, he might have, but you will have to prove that he did.”
“I prove it?” John Hale’s heavy brows met in a scowl. “That’s the detective’s job, not mine.”
“I used the pronoun to imply the prosecution, and not in its personal application,” Latimer explained. “Where was Richards on Tuesday night?”
“Playing billiards at the club.”
“Have you proof of the exact time he left there?”
“No, but I’ll get it,” and John Hale’s tone implied grim determination.
“Then suppose you make inquiries at the club,” suggested Latimer; “but be guarded, John. Every one’s attention is focused on Austin’s murder and you might start an ugly scandal.”
John Hale reddened. “Well, what if I do?” he grumbled. “The situation couldn’t be much worse than it is to-day,”—shooting a defiant look at his friend. “Austin murdered under mysterious circumstances, and the police haunting our house, not to mention the morbid sight-seers who gather about it. I cannot stir out of the place without encountering curious glances. Even at the club there’s excitement whenever I appear—and the newspaper men!” He struck the desk a resounding blow with his clenched fist. “Damn it! If Richards murdered Austin he’ll swing for it—I don’t care if he’s married Judith a dozen times over.”