He came in on some excuse or other, looked Jim over and went out again.
Jim was not suspicious.
But by midnight he was showing signs of exhaustion, and even the District Attorney showed strain.
It was a warm spring night.
The men who came and went had taken off their coats, but Jim still sat there in his hard chair, neat and tidy, and twitching, and faced them all down.
“You still decline to account for the time between seven o’clock and ten-thirty, on the night of April eighteenth?”
“I shall do that if necessary.
Not before.”
“What were your relations with Sarah Gittings?”
“Relations?
I knew her, of course.
Had known her for years.”
“In case of distress she might come to you?”
“She might, yes.”
“Then this letter to you would not be unusual.”
“I never received a letter from her.
Why should she write me?
She could have seen me at any time.”
“We have absolute proof that she did write to you, Mr. Blake.
And we believe that you received the letter.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“Perhaps not, but I can damned well try.
Some one made an appointment to meet Sarah Gittings on the night she was killed; to meet her and see with his own eyes this copy of Howard Somers’ will which the Gunther girl had abstracted from the files.
From that appointment Sarah Gittings never returned, and during that evening the copy of the will disappeared.”
“Why should I destroy it?
Or her?
The original document was safe in New York.”
“Did you know Florence Gunther?”
“No.”
“Never saw her?”
“No.”
“Never waited for her on Halkett Street, near a fruit stand, with a car?”
“Absolutely no.”
And, if the two previous denials had lacked force, this last was impressive enough.
But the heat and the tension were telling on them both.
Hours had passed, putting a fine edge on Jim’s nerves.
He had exhausted his cigars, and no one offered him any.
He asked for water, and after a long delay it came.
And then, on top of his exhaustion he was told that Howard Somers had been poisoned.
He very nearly collapsed, but if they had hoped to wear him into confession they were disappointed.
He was still fighting.
But he said a curious thing.
“How do you know he was poisoned?
How do you know he didn’t take the stuff himself?”
“I’m not answering questions.
I’m asking them.”
Jim was angry now, however, and he braced himself for one last effort.
“I never went to New York to see Howard Somers the night he died.
Some one else used my name, that’s all.
And the more I think over this case—and God knows it’s all I do think of—the more I am convinced that a definite attempt is being made to put the guilt on me.