“Why would I have killed him?
I stood to lose by his death, not to gain.
He was my sister’s husband and my friend.
If you are trying to show that I escaped the watch on my house, climbed the window of my garage and drove my car to New York that night, I swear before God that I never did it, or thought of it.
As for this will, I had never heard of a second will until Alex Davis revealed its existence in New York.
“I swear before God that I have never killed any one, have never thought of killing any one.
And I protest against your methods.
You are wearing me out.
But you can’t wear me into confession.
I’m innocent.”
They had worn him out, however.
His face was gray with exhaustion, and sweat was running down his face.
Now and then he ran his finger under his collar, as though it choked him.
The whirring of an electric fan, the tick of a clock on the wall, and the District Attorney never relaxing; watching him, firing at him his staccato questions, deliberately trying to torture him until confession would be sheer relief.
Some time in that last half hour a memorandum was placed on the desk, and the District Attorney nodded his head.
“Send him in when he comes.”
Jim had listened, with an impassive face.
But he felt—perhaps his exhaustion had sharpened his faculties—that something vital had happened.
The questions began again, sharper, a little excitement in them.
“You have admitted that on the night Sarah Gittings was killed, you carried with you this sword-stick, and that later on it disappeared.
You had no theories about that disappearance?”
“None whatever.”
“You left it in the hall and it disappeared?”
“Yes.”
“And when did you notice that it had disappeared?”
“It was several days later.
I don’t know exactly.”
“I think you do know exactly, Mr. Blake.
It disappeared on the day Sarah Gittings’ body was found.”
“Possibly.
I’m not certain.”
“What is your explanation of that disappearance?”
“I’ve told you that before.
I think it was stolen.”
“As a part of the plot against you?”
“Possibly.”
“You did not conceal it yourself?
I mean, you did not feel that its presence was a dangerous thing in your house?”
“I thought of that, naturally.
Yes.”
“But you did not hide it.”
Jim made an effort, moistened his dry lips.
“Not exactly.
I put it in a closet.”
“What closet?”
“The liquor closet, in the hall.”
“And you locked it there?”
“Yes.”
“Then the story that it was missing from the hall was not true?”
“Not entirely.