“No,” I declared. “I have seen Richard Keene in the flesh. He is not dead.”
“Impossible! You’re deceiving me,” she exclaimed. “The man cannot possibly be alive.”
“How do you know?”
She hesitated, for she saw that to reply to my question was to expose her own knowledge. Her face was ashen grey. My announcement, I saw, held her rigid in terror and surprise.
“Because his death is common knowledge to those who—well, those who knew him,” she replied lamely.
“I tell you that Richard Keene has eaten cold meat and drunk beer in the tap-room at the Stanchester Arms. He came to Sibberton to make inquiries regarding the Earl and the occupants of this house.”
“He did!” she gasped aghast. “Are you quite certain of that?”
“I heard him with my own ears. He questioned Warr, who is not, however, very communicative to strangers, especially if they are not very well-dressed.”
“How long ago?”
“On the evening of the tragedy.”