Pitt blushed scarlet. He leaned forward over the rail, his temper boiling.

“You asked me an impossible question!” he accused Gleave. “I was pointing that out to you. If your folly entertained the gallery, that is your own fault-not mine!”

Gleave’s face darkened. He had not expected retaliation, but he covered his anger quickly. He was nothing if not a fine actor.

“Then we have Dr. Ibbs being overzealous, for what reason we cannot know,” he resumed as if the interruption had never occurred. “You answered his call and found all these enigmatic little signs. The armchair was not where you would have placed it had this beautiful room been yours.” His tone of voice was derisive. “The butler thinks it sat somewhere else. There was an indentation on the carpet.” He glanced at the jury with a smile. “The books were not in the order that you would have placed them had they been yours.” He did not bother to keep the smile from his face. “The glass of port was not finished, and yet he sent for the butler. We shall never know why… but is it our concern?” He looked at the jury. “Do we accuse John Adinett of murder for that?” His face was filled with amazement. “Do we? I don’t! Gentlemen, these are a handful of miscellaneous irrelevancies dredged up by an idle doctor and a policeman who wants to make a name for himself, even if it is on the death of one man, and the monstrously wrong accusation against another, who was his friend. Throw it out as the farrago of rubbish it is!”

“Is that your defense?” Juster said loudly. “You appear to be summing up.”

“No, it is not!” Gleave retorted. “Although I hardly need more. But have your witness back, by all means.”

“Not a great deal to say,” Juster observed, taking his place. “Mr. Pitt, when you first questioned the housemaid, was she certain about the scratch on the billiard room door?”

“Absolutely.”