His conscious mind was occupied with something quite different—the white figure

he had caught a glimpse of. He fancied it was Miss Ackroyd. Really, of course,

it was Ursula Bourne’s white apron he saw as she was stealing down to the

summer-house.”

 

Raymond had recovered from his first surprise.

 

“All the same,” he remarked, “this discovery of yours, brilliant though it is

(I’m quite sure I should never have thought of it), leaves the essential

position unchanged. Mr. Ackroyd was alive at nine-thirty, since he was speaking

into the dictaphone. It seems clear that the man Charles Kent was really off the

premises by then. As to Ralph Paton——?”

 

He hesitated, glancing at Ursula.

 

Her color flared up, but she answered steadily enough.

 

“Ralph and I parted just before a quarter to ten. He never went near the house,

I am sure of that. He had no intention of doing so. The last thing on earth he

wanted was to face his stepfather. He would have funked it badly.”

 

“It isn’t that I doubt your story for a moment,” explained Raymond. “I’ve always

been quite sure Captain Paton was innocent. But one has to think of a court of

law—and the questions that would be asked. He is in a most unfortunate position,

but if he were to come forward——”