“I suppose nothing of the sort.”
“Damn it, suppose what you like. I can give you what I was doing at four o’clock. Come now, that’s close enough, isn’t it? I had tea with Marlowe. He’s a painter, but even you will allow he’s honest enough. Tea with Marlowe, four o’clock. At seven, I dined at the Bon Bourgeois, and paid by cheque—you can confirm that, you know—and went on to the first night of Meyrick’s show. He saw me there. Is that good enough?”
He was writing all these times and places down, digging the pencil savagely into the paper. I said:
“You seem to remember it all very clearly.”
“Yes, that’s one in the eye for you, isn’t it, my lad? Sorry and all that, but you asked for it. I slept that night at the studio. I’m afraid I’ve only Mrs. Cutts’ word for it, and, of course, she’d say anything.”
“Very likely,” said I.
“That gives you a gleam of hope, doesn’t it? But seeing I didn’t get home till four ack emma, after celebrating with Meyrick’s crowd—ask them—it doesn’t leave much margin, does it? Particularly as I was up again at nine o’clock.”
“That’s very unusual,” I said, trying to speak lightly. “Whatever did you get up at nine for?”
“To spite you. And incidentally, to sign for a beastly registered letter. Providential, wasn’t it?”
“Obviously,” said I.
“At ten-thirty I went to see my agent. You know him, don’t you?” I admitted knowing the agent.