“I didn’t take them.”
“Murder, then.”
“My God!” So abject was the terror and misery in the cry that Kent felt sorry for the wretch. Then, with a certain dogged bitterness: “I don’t care what you know; I didn’t kill her.”
“That is very likely true,” replied Kent soothingly. “But it is what I must know in detail. Find your foot lever and turn on the light.”
The two visitors could hear him grope heavily. As the light flashed on, they saw, with a shock, that he was on all fours. It was as if Kent’s word had felled him. Instantly he was up, however, and faced around upon Marjorie Blair.
“Who was she?” he demanded. “Your sister?”
Mrs. Blair was very pale, but her eyes were steady and her voice under control as she answered:
“I do not know.”
“You must know! Don’t torture me! I’m a rat in a trap.”
“I’m sorry,” she said gently, “that I can’t help you. But I do not know.”