“Mr. Lester is Drysdale’s counsel,” explained my companion. “Between us, we’re going to see that he’s cleared of this ridiculous charge.”
“Yes, I hope you will. Sit down, won’t you? Ridiculous, that’s the word for it; and yet,” he added, passing his hand before his eyes in a dazed way, “there are so many points of evidence which seem unexplainable that I’ve grown giddy thinking about them. It’s such a terrible thing—my wife is quite prostrated—even a little delirious at times; her sister is almost ill—we’ve all been terribly upset.”
“No doubt,” nodded Godfrey, his face curiously intent. “We’re not going to trouble you much now, Mr. Delroy; the only thing I should like you to do is to give us an account of all that happened that evening. I hope you will do that.”
“Yes, I’ll be glad to do that,” and he proceeded to tell in detail the story the reader already knows.
“There’s one thing,” said Godfrey, when it was ended. “Is it true that Miss Croydon seemed to believe Drysdale guilty?”
“Yes,” answered Delroy; “for an instant she did; but she explained to me afterwards that she thought it was Tremaine who had been killed.”
Godfrey’s eyes blazed with sudden interest.
“Tremaine! Then there’s been ill-feeling between them?”
“Yes—at least on Drysdale’s part. He’d conceived some absurd suspicions of Tremaine—told me I’d done wrong in inviting him here—acted rather nastily about it, in fact.”
“Thank you,” said Godfrey quietly, though his eyes
