Drukker thrust his chin forward and squinted.
“A tragedy, eh? What kind of tragedy?”
“A Mr. Robin was killed—with a bow and arrow.”
The man’s face began to twitch spasmodically.
“Robin killed? Killed? . . . What time?”
“Some time between eleven and twelve probably.”
“Between eleven and twelve?” Quickly Drukker’s gaze shifted to his mother. He seemed to grow excited, and his huge splay fingers worried the hem of his smoking-jacket. “What did you see?” His eyes glinted as he focussed them on the woman.
“What do you mean, son?” The retort was a panic-stricken whisper.
Drukker’s face became hard, and the suggestion of a sneer twisted his lips.
“I mean that it was about that time when I heard a scream in this room.”