There isn't a word of truth in it, sir.
My wife and I were with Miss Brady till she died.
She was always in poor health, sir, always from the time we came to her.
There was a storm, sir, that night - the night she was taken bad.
The telephone was out of order. We couldn't get the doctor to her.
I went for him, sir, on foot.
But he got there too late.
We'd done everything possible for her, sir.
Devoted to her, we were. Any one will tell you the same.
There was never a word said against us.
Not a word."
Lombard looked thoughtfully at the man's twitching face, his dry lips, the fright in his eyes.
He remembered the crash of the falling coffee tray.
He thought, but did not say, "Oh, yea?"
Blore spoke - spoke in his hearty bullying official manner. He said: "Came into a little something at her death, though? Eh?"
Rogers drew himself up. He said stiffly: "Miss Brady left us a legacy in recognition of our faithful services. And why not, I'd like to know?"
Lombard said: "What about yourself, Mr. Blore?"
"What about me?"
"Your name was included in the list."
Blore went purple.
"Landor, you mean?
That was the bank robbery - London and Commercial."
Mr. Justice Wargrave stirred. He said: "I remember. It didn't come before me, but I remember the case.
Landor was convicted on your evidence.
You were the police officer in charge of the case?"
Blore said: "I was."
"Landor got penal servitude for life and died in Dartmoor a year later.
He was a delicate man."
Blore said: "He was a crook.
It was he who knocked out the night watchman. The case was quite clear against him."
Wargrave said slowly: "You were complimented, I think, on your able handling of the case."
Blore said sulkily: "I got my promotion."
He added in a thick voice: "I was only doing my duty."
Lombard laughed - a sudden ringing laugh. He said: "What a duty-loving, law-abiding lot we all seem to be!
Myself excepted.
What about you, doctor - and your little professional mistake?
Illegal operation, was it?"
Emily Brent glanced at him in sharp distaste and drew herself away a little.
Dr. Armstrong, very much master of himself, shook his head good-humouredly.
"I'm at a loss to understand the matter," he said. "The name meant nothing to me when it was spoken.
What was it - Clees?
Close?
I really can't remember having a patient of that name, or being connected with a death in any way. The thing's a complete mystery to me.
Of course, it's a long time ago.
It might possibly be one of my operation cases in hospital.
They come too late, so many of these people.
Then, when the patient dies, they always consider it's the surgeon's fault."
He sighed, shaking his head.
He thought: "Drunk - that's what it was - drunk... And I operated!
Nerves all to pieces - hands shaking.