“We had more champagne than was good for us and when the dinner was over we all went to Reggie Camplyn’s rooms where he invented the Saint Beau cocktail. I give you my word, inspector, the thing has a thoro’bred kick to it. It’s one of those damned insidious cocktails wrapped up in cream to make you think it’s innocent. After I’d had a few I said to Camplyn, ‘You’ve made me what I am to-night; I insist on sleeping here.”
“But you didn’t!” cried McWalsh.
“Until four in the morning. The Saint Beau cocktail made me so ill at four that I got up and walked down to my house.”
“What time did you get there?”
“Exactly at five. I felt the need of the cool air, so I took a long walk first.”
“Then at half past twelve you were at——”
“Voisin’s as a score of people can prove. I had a table in the balcony and saw all the people I ever knew it seemed to me.”
“But this morning you told the officers who made an investigation of the robbery a totally different story. You corroborated your butler’s evidence that you were at home at half past twelve and told him to go to bed because you didn’t want anything else. How do you account for that?”
The inspector was troubled. His only consolation was that he would have another session soon with the supercilious Austin. He licked his lips at the thought. But he did not wish to involve the horseman in any difficulties if he could avoid it.
Conington Warren laughed easily.