“Wh‑at!” cried Crofts, holding up a portion of the canvas. “You daubed this stuff on my painting?”
“Not I; Maryvale. And that’s not your painting, by the way.”
Crofts could only mutter.
“Don’t be disturbed, my friend. This portrait is a rush order, as they say in America, a copy done for me this afternoon by Maryvale. You’ll find the original under his mattress, poor chap.”
“Well, of all—” Crofts relapsed into dumb glowering.
Aire made a slight movement of disdain. “Why be so upset? It was only a trick—a cheap trick, I admit—and I take the full responsibility, ladies and gentlemen. I almost wish it hadn’t occurred, but dogmatic people sometimes get on my nerves. And now let’s forget about it and get back to the table; we were really learning something there. Paula, I hope this hasn’t too awfully disconcerted you? You can go on with it?”
She forced a smile. “Yes, certainly. Do come on, people; it’s getting awfully late.”
We returned to our places not much more comforted than when we had sprung from them a few minutes before. It was all very well to speak of parlour tricks, but there was no ease in sitting around the table in that darkened room with those images of lethargy dwelling by the fire, and no cheer in waiting through the lonesome night, wondering from what direction some new terror might leap upon us. But there we were.
“. . . bearings of Sean’s death,” Paula Lebetwood was saying. She went on in a strange voice: “He was struck and fell dying where I found him by the tower. Then the weapon, as we now know, was hurled down there, too. But we have to admit that as far as we can tell none of us could have been at the tower at that time. Nobody except Wheeler met Sean—or will admit he did—after our quarrel in the Hall. So, stated in those terms, there is an irreconcilable contradiction in Sean’s death. Only there is no contradiction save in words; for we know, well enough, that somebody must have struck him, and therefore somebody must have been there.
“In Mr. Heatheringham’s death there were differences, though in some respects it was much the same. In the first place, he must have seen something hostile or there would have been no revolver shot. The trail of blood across the floor, too, showed what had been the murderer’s line of retreat. But the most unusual thing, surely, is one that Doctor Aire can explain better than I. Will you, Doctor?”