There was no other person whom French knew of who could have been Berlyn’s confederate.
Many and many a man had been hanged on far less evidence than there was here. With this mass of incriminating facts an arrest was amply justifiable. Indeed, a conviction was almost assured.
On the other hand, every bit of this evidence was circumstantial and could be explained on the assumption of Domlio’s innocence, by supposing him to be the victim of a conspiracy on the part of the real murderer.
French wondered if he could make the man reveal his own outlook on the affair.
“Tell me, Colonel,” he said, “did it not strike you as a strange thing that Mrs. Berlyn should stumble at just the point which ensured her falling into your arms?”
Domlio slackened speed and looked around aggressively.
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“As a matter of fact,” French answered, sweetly, “what I mean is, was the accident genuine or faked?”
The colonel squared his shoulders indignantly.
“I consider that a most unwarrantable remark,” he said, hotly, “and I shall not answer it. I can only suppose your abominable calling has warped your mind and made suspicion a disease with you.”
French glanced at him keenly. The man was genuinely angry. And if so, it tended in his favour. Real indignation is difficult to simulate and would not be called forth by an imaginary insult.
“If you think my remark unwarrantable, I shall withdraw it,” French said, with his pleasant smile. “I simply wanted to know whether you yourself believed in it. I think you do. Well, Colonel, I think that’s all we can do tonight. I’m sorry to have given you all this annoyance, but you can see I had no option.”
They had reached the gate of Torview. Domlio stopped the car.
“Then you are not going to arrest me?” he asked, with barely concealed anxiety.
“No. Why should I? You have accounted in a reasonable way for the suspicious circumstances. So far as I can see, your explanation is satisfactory. I can’t expect any more.”
The colonel gave a sigh of relief.
“To be quite candid,” he admitted, “I scarcely hoped that you would accept it. After what has occurred, I can’t expect you to believe me, but for what it’s worth I give you my word of honour that what I have told you this time is the truth. I may tell you that I have been afraid of this very development ever since the tragedy. How are you getting to Ashburton? Shall I run you in?”
“It would be very good of you.”
It was with considerable uneasiness that French saw Colonel Domlio drive off from the hotel in Ashburton. He had backed his judgment that the man was innocent, but he recognised that he might easily have made a mistake. At the same time Domlio could scarcely escape otherwise than by suicide, and he felt sure that his mind had been so much eased that he would not attempt anything so drastic. As soon, however, as the car was out of sight he walked to the police station and asked Daw to have a watch kept on the man’s movements.
XVI
Certainty at Last
That night as French was writing up his diary the question he had asked Domlio recurred to him. “Tell me, Colonel,” he had said, “did it not strike you as strange that Mrs. Berlyn should stumble at just the point which ensured her falling into your arms?” He had asked it to test the colonel’s belief in the incident. Now it occurred to him that on its merits it required an answer.
Had the incident stood alone it might well have passed unquestioned. But it was not alone. Two other matters must be considered in conjunction with it.
First there was the coincidence that at the precise moment a watcher armed with a camera should be present. What accident should take a photographer to this secluded glen just when so compromising a tableau should be staged? Was there here an element of design?
Secondly, there was the consideration that if suspicion were to be thrown on Domlio he must be made to take out his car secretly on the fatal night. And how better could this be done than by the story of the photograph? Once again, did this not suggest design?
If so, something both interesting and startling followed. Mrs. Berlyn was privy to it. And if she were privy to it, was she not necessarily implicated in the murder? Could she even be the accomplice for whom he, French, had been searching?
There was, of course, her alibi. If she had been at the party at her house at she could not have drugged Gurney’s tea. But was she at her house?
Experience had made French sceptical about alibis. This one certainly seemed watertight, and yet was it not just possible that Mrs. Berlyn had managed to slip away from her guests for the fifteen or twenty minutes required?
It was evident that the matter must be tested forthwith, and French decided that, having already questioned Mr. Fogden, he would interview the Dr. and Mrs. Lancaster whom Lizzie Johnston had mentioned as also being members of the party. They lived on the Buckland road half a mile beyond the Berlyns’, and next morning French called on them.
Dr. Lancaster, he had learned from Daw, was a newcomer to the town, a young LL.D. who had been forced by a breakdown in health to give up his career at the bar. He received French at once.
“I want to find out whether any member of the party could have left the house about for fifteen or twenty minutes,” French explained. “Do you think that you or Mrs. Lancaster could help me out?”
“I can only speak for myself,” Dr. Lancaster smiled. “I was there all the time, and I’m sure so was Mrs. Lancaster. But I’ll call her and you can ask her.”
“A moment, please. Surely you can speak for
