“But she happened to be in the reception-room on both occasions,” Bernard retorted.
“Yes. Closing the window! She has the best alibi of anyone in the house!”
Bernard smiled.
“She couldn’t have shot either Graham or Harrison. Therefore, she’s the one you suspect, eh?”
They had reached the lower hall. Without answering, Landis went to the telephone, found a local directory and called Doctor Stanford. The doctor answered the ring himself.
“This is Landis speaking,” Bernard heard. “You coming to look at Graham’s shoulder in the morning?—What time?—Could you make it seven instead of nine?—I’ll tell you why then. Make it seven sharp, will you?—All right. Good night!”
Landis hung up and rejoined Bernard.
“I’ll tell you what I think in the morning,” he said. “How about bed?”
Amused and in spite of himself a little intrigued, Bernard expressed himself as satisfied to wait. That Landis was hot on some scent or other militated not at all against a pet theory of his own which Bernard was quietly nursing.
They sent Stimson to bed and were getting to bed themselves when they heard the quartette of young people returning. Half an hour later the house settled to repose.