“Did you meet any one you knew?”
Drukker turned angrily, but Vance quickly stepped into the breach.
“It really doesn’t matter, Sergeant. If it’s necess’ry later on to ascertain that point, we can take the matter up again.” Then to Drukker: “You returned from your walk a little before eleven, I think you said, and entered your house by the front door.”
“That’s right.”
“You saw nothing, by the by, that was in the least extr’ordin’ry when you were here this morning?”
“I saw nothing except what I’ve told you.”
“And you’re quite sure you heard your mother scream at about half past eleven?”
Vance did not move as he asked this question; but a slightly different note had crept into his voice, and it acted on Drukker in a startling manner. He heaved his squat body out of his chair, and stood glaring down on Vance with menacing fury. His tiny round eyes flashed, and his lips worked convulsively. His hands, dangling before him, flexed and unflexed like those of a man in a paroxysm.
“What are you driving at?” he demanded, his voice a shrill falsetto. “I tell you I heard her scream. I don’t care a damn whether she admits it or not. Moreover, I heard her walking in her room. She was in her room, understand, and I was in my room, between eleven and twelve. And you can’t prove anything different. Furthermore, I’m not going to be cross-examined by you or any one else as to what I was doing or where I was. It’s none of your damned business—do you hear me? . . .”
So insensate was his wrath that I expected any minute to see him hurl himself on Vance. Heath had risen and stepped forward, sensing the potential danger of the man. Vance, however, did not move. He continued to smoke languidly, and when the other’s fury had been spent, he said quietly and without a trace of emotion: