Austin Ponson started and his face grew dead white. He sat motionless for several seconds gazing with terrified eyes, at his questioner, and apparently unable to speak.
“What’s that you say?” he gasped at last, licking his dry lips. “Impossible! I—I wasn’t there.” He dropped his head into his hands while the sweat stood in drops on his forehead. Daunt waited silently. His doubts were becoming confirmed. The man surely was guilty.
Presently Austin raised his head.
“This is awful news,” he said hoarsely. “I can only say I wasn’t there. I swear it. There is a mistake. There must be. Who is supposed to have seen me? And from where?”
In Daunt’s opinion the answer was unconvincing. The man’s manner was shifty. Unless Jimmy was greatly mistaken he was lying. He replied somewhat coldly:
“Two people in Dr. Graham’s wood at the other side of the river are prepared to swear to it.”
“Two?” Austin groaned. “My God! How can they? They must have seen someone else, and mistaken him for me.”
“Suppose it was proved there was no other boat down the river that night but yours. What will you say then?”
“What can I say? I don’t understand it. That could not be proved—unless someone took my boat from the Old Ferry.” He sat up eagerly and a gleam came into his eye. “Could that be it, Mr. Daunt? Could whoever worked the trick on me have been watching at the Old Ferry, and have taken my boat when I went ashore? What do you think?”
This was an idea which had not occurred to Daunt, and he instantly saw that it might account for the whole thing. Suppose the real murderer, knowing of Austin’s financial relations with his father, had seen how that fact could be used as the basis of a case against the son, and had added details to strengthen it. Suppose he had forged notes, getting Austin to bring a boat to the Old Ferry, and, leaving it there, go to the Abbey. Meanwhile he himself, made up to represent Austin, might have taken the boat to the boathouse, committed the murder and returned the boat to the Old Ferry before Austin arrived back? Daunt felt that this was a possibility which must not be overlooked. It might at any rate be a line of defence.
Then he remembered the shoes. No. If Austin had deliberately made a fake with the shoes, he must be guilty. He spoke again.
“Unfortunately, there is another very serious point. Your alibi depends on the fact that the prints made at the Abbey were made by shoes which it can be proved you were wearing on that night and at no other time. Isn’t that so?”
“That is so.”
“How many pairs of that kind of shoe had you?”
“One pair.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that you bought two pairs on the before the murder?”
This time Austin showed no signs of embarrassment.
“I bought two—yes,” he answered readily, “but I only brought one home. I lost the other.”
“Lost the other? Just how?”
“Very simply. I went that to Hunt’s shoe shop in Piccadilly and there I bought a pair of shoes. I had them carefully fitted, and was pleased with them. The shopman gave me a card with their number, in case I should want to replace them. I took them with me, as I was hurrying to catch the train from St. Pancras. I had to call at a shop in Regent Street, and I walked there. But as I stepped off the footpath to cross the street, a lorry I hadn’t seen came quickly up, and I had to jump back out of its way. I was startled, and I unfortunately dropped the shoes. As luck would have it they were run over by the lorry. A hawker picked them up and returned them, but one was badly torn, so, as they were no further use to me, I made him a present of them. That left me without any, so I decided to replace them. I noticed another of Messrs. Hunt’s shops close by, and I went in and asked for shoes of the number on the card. That saved me from a troublesome refitting. By the time my purchase was complete I was late for my train. I therefore waited till the . Does that make the matter clear?”
Daunt was relieved, but somewhat puzzled by what he had heard. Unquestionably, Austin’s explanation was plausible, and he could see no reason why it should not be true. If the hawker who got the shoes could be found it would set this part of the matter at rest, but Daunt feared he would be untraceable. He felt doubtful and dissatisfied in his mind about the whole affair, but he saw that Austin’s statements provided a line of defence, though whether the best available he was not yet certain.
Still turning the idea over in his mind he went down the next to Halford, to spend, on the earnest invitation of Lois, the weekend with the Drews.
X
A Woman’s Wit
After dinner on that evening, Lois Drew had a long conversation with her cousin, James Daunt. She waited until he was seated in the most comfortable chair in the drawing-room with his cigar well under way, and then she spoke of the subject next her heart.
“Tell me, Jimmy,” she begged, “just what you really think. I want to understand exactly what we have to meet.”
He told her. Directly and without any attempt to gloss over the uglier facts, he told her all he knew. She listened in silence for the most part, but occasionally interjected shrewd, pertinent questions. Jimmy, who knew and respected his cousin’s intellect, yet marvelled at her grip, her power of letting go irrelevant details, and the unhesitating way in which she went straight to the essential heart of
