“Will you have something?”
Orr thanked him. Annandale helped himself to a liquor. As he did so the decanter clicked against the glass and, as he raised the glass, Orr saw that his hand shook.
“It is very strange,” said Annandale, repeating almost the words which Orr had used to Sylvia. “I had no cause to love the man, but—”
“I know,” Orr interrupted. “My cousin told me. But if I were you I would not talk of it. She seemed worried lest you might.”
Annandale put down the glass. He was quite flushed. “But,” he exclaimed, “she does not suspect me!”
“Of course not. On the contrary. But then the fact suggests a motive which, coupled with any threat you may have made, might, in the absence of other clues, made a prima facie case, which to say the least, don’t you see, would be nasty.”
“Damnably so!” Annandale muttered dumbly. Then, raising the glass again, he threw out: “But what nonsense! A little after you had all gone from here I went to your cousin’s—”
“Yes. I know you did. I met you on the stoop.”
“Did you?” said Annandale with marked surprise.
“Why, yes. Don’t you remember?”
Annandale passed a hand across his face and sat down.
“Don’t you remember?” Orr reiterated.
Annandale shook his head.