“To Cecily—Tremaine’s sweetheart, you know. He shipped her back to Martinique this morning.”
“Oh, did he?” and my companion’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “Why was that?”
I related briefly the incidents of the preceding evening and of the morning.
“Godfrey,” I added impulsively, “if you knew Tremaine personally, I think you’d realise what a poor case we’ve got against him. Why, it’s no case at all! Theorising’s all very well, but what a jury wants is evidence—plain, straight-out, direct evidence, and we haven’t enough of that to build a cobweb. I thought I’d found some yesterday afternoon, but it was all the effect of self-induced hypnosis,” and I told him of my visit to Sing-Sing.
He listened with intent face.
“I’m not so sure it was hypnosis,” he said, when I had finished. “At least, I’ll have a look at those photographs myself before I accept that theory. In fact, I rather think it’s Tremaine who has hypnotised you, not I.”
“I don’t believe he’s guilty,” I repeated.
“Then who is?”
“Cecily!” I said bluntly. “I believe she’s the one who killed Thompson, anyway.”
“Where’s your evidence?”
“I haven’t any,” I said helplessly; “only a kind of intuition.”
“Well, I’ve the same kind of intuition it was Tremaine.”
“But we haven’t any evidence against him, either; not a shred of real, direct, convincing evidence.”
