“Wal, how soon did this feller Stewart show up?” Hawe continued, with a wry smile.
“Very soon after my arrival. I think—perhaps fifteen minutes, possibly a little more.”
“Some dark an’ lonesome around thet station, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed yes.”
“An’ what time was the Greaser shot?” queried Hawe, with his little eyes gleaming like coals.
“Probably close to half past one. It was two o’clock when I looked at my watch at Florence Kingsley’s house. Directly after Stewart sent Bonita away he took me to Miss Kingsley’s. So, allowing for the walk and a few minutes’ conversation with her, I can pretty definitely say the shooting took place at about half past one.”
Stillwell heaved his big frame a step closer to the sheriff. “What ‘re you drivin’ at?” he roared, his face black again.
“Evidence,” snapped Hawe.
Madeline marveled at this interruption; and as Stewart irresistibly drew her glance she saw him gray-faced as ashes, shaking, utterly unnerved.
“I thank you, Miss Hammond,” he said, huskily. “But you needn’t answer any more of Hawe’s questions. He’s—he’s—It’s not necessary. I’ll go with him now, under arrest. Bonita will corroborate your testimony in court, and that will save me from this—this man’s spite.”