They crowded around him, expostulating. They wanted to see the pool, to know what he carried, what the evidence was. When it was clear that they could do none of these things, they broke for their car, and Tony came toward the house looking grave and unhappy.

He and Maud had a long conference before dinner that evening. It ended by his sending for Dwight Elliott, and asking him to meet him at once in the police station in the village; for by that time there was no longer any doubt as to where Donald Morgan had died, or how.

Bill Sterling was being interrogated down in Jim Conway’s office, and there was a sodden slipper and a large pearl button on the desk in front of him.

Chapter Twelve

IT WAS TOTALLY INFORMAL, that interrogation. It might have been a talk between two men, acquainted if not actually friends. Jim said further on in the case that he had no idea how far his authority went, and that Bill Sterling did not seem to care.

Bill said at once that he had no alibi.

“I didn’t kill him,” he said. “I thought he was a dirty scoundrel. For that matter I still think so. He walked out on Lydia years ago. Then when he got sick—and I doubt that sickness of his; his heart was all right at the inquest—he came back. Find out why he came back and you’ll know something.”

“Perhaps. You needn’t emphasize how you felt toward him, Bill. It’s understandable, but it might be—well, unfortunate.”

“Meaning I may be guilty. Well, I’m no fool, Conway. If I’d meant to do away with him, I know a dozen ways, not only easier but less dangerous. Any medical man does. And certainly I’d have had an alibi, and I haven’t.”

“You didn’t have a quarrel with him?”

“I’ve never laid eyes on him but once. Then he was taking a walk, with Audrey holding him up. Holding him up! You saw him today. Do you think he was feeble?”

Jim grinned at that. “I suppose you’re set on making a case against yourself,” he said. “Suppose we do this thing according to Hoyle for a change. Where were you last night, for example?”

“You know that. I went up to see Pat Abbott at the Cloisters. There had been a dinner there, and Mrs. Stoddard left early. I filled her place at bridge, and if you want all the details, I lost exactly eleven dollars.”

“When did you leave?”

“Around twelve o’clock.”

“Then what?”

“The usual story. I wasn’t sleepy, so I drove around a bit.”

“Where was that, Bill? Where did you go?”

“Over the hills. It was a nice night. I was on the Beaver Creek Road, where that lane turns off below the Stoddard place, for one thing,” he added truculently. “Make something of that if you can.”

He had been clear enough so far, angry and aggressive. But after that things did not go so well. Asked if he had seen Lydia’s car at any time, he denied it, but with less conviction. Indeed, his whole manner changed. From indignant belligerence he became cautious. Asked about the playhouse at the Cloisters, he said he had been in it only once or twice in his life, to play indoor tennis with Tony. Of course, he had no key to the place. What the hell would he want with such a key? He had his keys with him. There they were. Look them over.