I saw no one outside or near the house when I arrived," Drake
answered, with less than his usual nastiness.
"And saw no one running away across the meadows?" Dundee pressed.
"No one at all," Drake retorted. "I wish to God I could truthfully say
that I saw a gunman, with a mask and a smoking revolver, skulking
through the wildflowers, but the absolute truth is that I saw no one."
"Thank you, Mr. Drake.... Now--Mr. Sprague, 'of New York'!"
Sprague's nervously twitching face reddened darkly. "I--I took a bus. I
have no car of my own. I got off the bus on Sheridan Road, at the
entrance to Primrose Meadows."
"I see. And you walked the quarter of a mile to this house?"
Sprague's hand fumbled with his cravat. "I--of course I did!"
"I see.... Now, Miss Raymond," Dundee pounced unexpectedly, so that the
red-haired girl went very white beneath her freckles, "you observed Mr.
Sprague toiling down the rutty road, hot and weary, but romantic in the
sunset?"
Mrs. Drake let out a nervous giggle, then clapped her hand over her
mouth.
"I--I wasn't looking that way," Janet Raymond stammered. "I--I just went
out on the porch for a breath of fresh air--"
"And you were _completely_ surprised when Mr. Sprague came walking up
the flagstone path?" Dundee persisted, for he knew she was lying, knew
that she had stationed herself there to watch for Sprague.
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