He was a fool and a bore, but I wished him no harm.
I was sorry as any one when I heard of his death, and I offered a good reward for the catching of the mean skunk that killed him.
If I had done so myself I wouldn't have been such a fool as to sharpen the scent of the hounds on my own trail."
"You were in town on Christmas Eve?" said Denzil, not choosing to explain the motives he believed the pair had for committing the crime.
"I was.
What of that?"
"You were in Jersey Street, Pimlico, on that night."
"I was never in Pimlico in my life!" declared Lydia wrathfully, "and, as I said before, I don't know where Jersey Street is."
"Do you know a man called Wrent?"
"I never heard of him!"
"Yet you visited him in Jersey Street on Christmas Eve, between seven and eight o'clock."
"Did I, really?" cried Mrs. Vrain, ironically, "and how can you prove I did?"
"By that cloak," said Lucian, pointing to where it lay on a chair. "You wore that cloak and a velvet-spotted veil."
"I haven't worn a veil of that kind for over a year," said Lydia decisively, "though I admit I used to wear veils of that sort.
You can ask my maid if I have any velvet-spotted veils in my wardrobe just now.
As to the cloak—I never wear rabbit skins."
"You might as a disguise."
"Sakes alive, man, what should I want with a disguise?
I tell you the cloak isn't mine.
You can soon prove that.
Find out who made it, and go and ask in the shop if I bought it."
"How can I find out who made it?" asked Denzil, who was beginning to feel that Lydia was one too many for him.
"Here!
I'll show you!" said Lydia, and picking up the cloak she turned over the tab at the neck, by which it was hung up.
At the back of this there was a small piece of tape with printed black letters.
"Baxter & Co., General Drapers, Bayswater," she read out, throwing down the cloak contemptuously.
"I don't go to a London suburb for my frocks; I get them in Paris."
"Then you are sure this cloak isn't yours?" asked Lucian, much perplexed.
"No!
I tell you it isn't!
Go and ask Baxter & Co. if I bought it.
I'll go with you, if you like; or better still," cried Mrs. Vrain, jumping up briskly, "I can take you to see some friends with whom I stayed on Christmas Eve.
The whole lot will tell you that I was with them at Camden Hill all the night."
"What!
Can you prove an alibi?"
"I don't know what you call it," retorted Lydia coolly, "but I can prove pretty slick that I wasn't in Pimlico."
"But—Mrs. Vrain—your friend—Ferruci was there!"
"Was he?
Well, I don't know. I never saw him that time he was in town.
But if you think he killed Mark you are wrong.
I do not believe Ercole would kill a fly, for all he's an Italian."
"Do you think he took that stiletto?"
"No, I don't!"
"Then who did?"
"I don't know.
I don't even know when it was taken.
I missed it after Christmas, because that old schoolma'am told me it was gone."
"Old schoolma'am!"
"Well, Bella Tyler, if you like that better," retorted Mrs. Vrain. "Come, now, Mr. Denzil, I'm not going to let you go away without proving my—what do you call it?—alibi.
Come with me right along to Camden Hill."