“I didn’t see my wife arrive,” he said. “I didn’t know she was there. I came away before the alarm of her death was raised—and I had no idea that she was in that house.”
“Why did you leave so suddenly and so unceremoniously?”
“That I shall not tell you—but it was in no way connected with my wife’s presence on the scene—of which I state, on my word of honor, I was entirely unaware.”
Lorimer Lane looked disappointed. And he was. Not that he, now, really suspected Andrew Barham guilty of his wife’s death, but so far he had believed in his veracity, and now he doubted it. There could be no reason, he argued, that would made Barham leave as he did leave, except the knowledge of his wife’s presence at the ball, either alive or dead.
“You say you left before the alarm of Mrs. Barham’s death was raised; but she was already dead when you ran out of the front door.”
“I didn’t run out.”
“No; on the contrary, you walked out casually, saying you would be back in a few moments.”
“I did.”
“Why did you go?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“You mean you will not?”
“I mean I will not.”
“Oh, Drew, for Heaven’s sake, tell us,” Nelson cried, in genuine distress. “You’ve been so frank and honest till now, do tell me the truth. Why did you go—if you didn’t know Madeleine was there?”
“I can’t tell you, Nick. Mr. Lane, I refuse to tell. You asked for my story, you have heard it. Now, it is up to you to make what use of it you see fit.”
