"I will swear to it," cried Iris firmly.
"The date of his cheque, which the Bank has, will show that. He probably cashed it himself on the day he paid you, any way the day before. Now, on the day preceding and the day following that tragedy, can you prove where you were?"
Iris began to see light. "Of course I can. The day after I had the notes, I got up a sprained ankle, an obliging doctor, an old (or rather young) friend of mine, sent a certificate to the theatre. I motored down to Brighton with Johnny Lascelles—who, by the way, used to make Roddie fearfully jealous. We joined a jolly little party at 'The Old Ship.' I came back the day after the discovery in Cathcart Square."
Davis rose and gave a great shout: "You have witnesses who can swear to that?"
"Of course," answered Iris, not even yet comprehending the full drift of the question. "Johnny Lascelles motored me there and drove me back. Then there was Cissy Monteith, Katie Havard, Jack Legard and others who were with me all the time."
"You silly little idiot," cried Reginald Davis. "And what the deuce do you mean by saying that you might be implicated?"
"The notes," she faltered. "My meeting him alone in that empty house. They might suggest I murdered him, if you say he was murdered."
Davis smote his forehead in impotent anger at her denseness. "How could you have murdered him when you were at Brighton all the time?"
He smote the palms of his hands together.
"I will find out who the dead man was, and also the man who forged my name to that letter to the Coroner."