damning. And in spite of everything, I like the man, and if there was anyone else to suspect, I should believe him to be innocent. What’s his own story?”
The solicitor pursed up his lips.
“He declares that he found her lying there dead. But that’s impossible, of course. He’s using the first lie that comes into his head.”
“Because, if he happened to be speaking the truth, it would mean that our garrulous Mrs. Honeycott committed the crime—and that is fantastic. Yes, he must have done it.”
“The maid heard her cry out, remember.”
“The maid—yes—”
Tommy was silent a moment. Then he said thoughtfully:
“What credulous creatures we are, really. We believe evidence as though it were gospel truth. And what is it really? Only the impressions conveyed to the mind by the senses—and suppose they’re the wrong impressions?”
The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh! we all know that there are unreliable witnesses, witnesses who remember more and more as time goes on, with no real intention to deceive.”
“I don’t mean only that. I mean all of us—we say things that aren’t really so, and never know that we’ve done so. For instance, both you and I, without doubt, have said some time or other, ‘There’s the post,’ when what we really meant was that we’d heard a double knock and the rattle of the letter box. Nine times out of ten we’d be right, and it would be the