CHAPTER XII
At the inquest on the following day, Mrs. Balfame, circumvested increpe, sat between Mr. and Mrs. Cummack, gracefully erect, and withouteven a nervous flutter of the hands.
When called upon to testify, she told in a clear low voice the meagrestory already known to her friends and by this time the common propertyof Elsinore and all that read the newspapers of the State.
The coroner released her as quickly as possible, and called her servantto the stand. Although the swelling in Frieda's face had subsidedsomewhat under Dr. Anna's repeated ministrations, the tooth stillthrobbed; and she also was released after announcing resentfully thatshe'd seen "notings," heard "notings," and "didn't know notings" aboutthe murder except having to get up and make coffee when she was like todie with the ache in her tooth.
There was no one else to testify, except Cummack, who gave the hour,about a quarter or ten minutes to eight, when the deceased had left hishouse, and Mr. Gifning and his two guests, who testified to hearing thesound of Balfame's voice raised in song, followed a moment later by thereport of a pistol. They also described minutely the position of thebody when found. Indubitably the shot had been fired from the grove.
The staff artists were forced to be content with a black sketch of avery long widow, who held her head high and emanated an air of chillrepose. One reporter, camera set, forced his way to her side as she wasabout to enter Mrs. Battle's limousine and begged her plaintively toraise her veil; but he might as well as have addressed a somnambulist;Mrs. Balfame did not even snub him.
"Why should they want a picture of me?" she asked Mrs. Battle,wonderingly. "It's poor Dave that is dead. Whoever heard of me outsideof Elsinore?"
"I guess you haven't amused yourself reading the papers. You've beenwritten up as a beauty and the intellectual and social leader ofElsinore. Some distinction, that! The public is mighty interested in youall over the State and will be for several days yet, no doubt. Thenwe'll find the man and they'll forget all about the whole affair untilthe trial comes up."
Mrs. Balfame, clad in full weeds, more dignified, stately andunapproachable than ever, ran the gauntlet of staring eyes at the churchfuneral, apparently unconscious of the immense crowd of women that haddriven over from every township in Brabant County. That the women didnot approve of her haughty head and tearless eyes, brilliant even behindthe heavy crepe, would have concerned her little if she had known it.Her mind was concentrated upon the future moment when this series ofhideous ordeals would be over and she could re-enter the decentseclusion of private life.
Mrs. Balfame may have had her faults, but a vulgar complaisance topublicity was not among them.
She had also made up her mind sternly not to feel happy, not to rejoicein her freedom, not to make a plan for the future until her husband wasin his grave. But all during that long service, while the new parsondiscoursed unctuously upon the virtues and eminence of the slain, shehad the sensation of holding her breath.
It was four days from the night of the murder before she consented tosee the reporters. Meanwhile every suspected person had proved an alibi,including the red-haired Miss Foxie Bell, and the indignant and highlyrespectable Miss Mamie Russ, who officiated at the telephone. She hadknown the deceased, yes, and once or twice she had driven out to one ofthe roadhouses with him, where a number of her friends were indulging ina quiet Sunday afternoon tango, but she had merely looked upon him as akind fatherly sort of person; and at the hour of his death she wasasleep, as her landlady could testify.
Old Dutch had indignantly repudiated the charge of employing gunmen, andhad even attended the funeral and shed tears. Whatever the faults of thedeceased, they were not of a nature to antagonise permanently the erringmembers of his own sex. Moreover, he had been an able politician,respected of his enemies, and was now glorified by his cowardly anduntimely taking off.
The local police had an uneasy suspicion that the assassin was one oftheir "pals"--in that small and democratic community, where every manwas an Elk from the banker to the undertaker. They were quite ready todrop the case, loudly ascribing the deed to an ordinary housebreaker, orto some unknown enemy from out the impenetrable rabbit warrens of NewYork City.
The newspaper men were chagrined and desperate. The Balfame Case hadproved uncommonly magnetic to the New York public. They had done theirbest to create this interest, and now were on their mettle to "makegood." But they were beginning to wish they had waited for at least alantern's ray at the end of the dark perspective before exciting thepublic with descriptions of the winding picturesque old street of theancient village of Elsinore; the stately old-time residence at its headwhich had housed (in more or less discomfort) three generations ofBalfames, the sinister grove of trees that had sheltered the dastardlyassassin, the prominence and political importance of David Balfame whohad inherited this ancestral estate, and played among those trees inchildhood; his unsuspecting and vocal return at an early hour to be shotdown at his own gate.
All this appealed acutely to a public which makes the fortune of thesentimental play, the "crook" play, and the "play with a punch and amystery." Here was the real thing, as rural as the childhood of many ofthe Greater New York public--weary of black-hand murders and anarchistbombs--with a mystery as deep as any ever invented by their favouriteauthors, and in no remote district but at their very gates.
If anything more were necessary to rivet their interest, there was thehandsome and elegant (if provincial) Mrs. Balfame, as austere as a Romanmatron, as chaste as Diana, as decently invisible in public during thisharrowing ordeal as imported crepe could make her. The men reporters haddismissed the widow with a paragraph of personal description, but thenewspaper women had filled half a page in each of the evening journals.
The press had given the public at least two columns a day of the Balfamemurder; there had been a biography of every suspect in turn, and therehad been the thrilling episode of the bloodhounds turned loose upon thattrampled enclosure. But no road led anywhere, and the public, baffledfor the moment, but still hopeful, demanded an interview with theinteresting widow.
Of course, her alibi was perfect, but all felt sure that she "knewsomething about it." Her unhappy married life was now common property,and if it only could be proved that she had had a lover--but thenewspapers as has been said were discouraging upon this point. Mrs.Balfame (quoting the young men this time), while amiable and kind toall, was cold and indifferent. Men were afraid of her. The New Yorkdetectives had "fine-tooth-combed" Brabant County and reporteddisgustedly to their chief that she was "just one of those club women;no use for men at all."
The reporters, however, had made up their minds to fix the crime, ifpossible, upon her. They would have compromised upon the young servant,but Frieda, especially with her face framed in a towel stained brown,and her eyes swollen above the wrenching agonies of an ulcerated tooth,was hopeless material. Moreover, they were convinced, after thoroughinvestigation, that the deceased's gallantries, while sufficientlycatholic, had not run to serving maids, and that of late particularly hehad loudly hated all things German.
Regarding Mrs. Balfame they held their judgment in reserve until theymet and talked with her; but Broderick had extracted the miserabledetails of her life from his friend, Alys Crumley, as well as a livelydescription of the scene at the Country Club; they believed they couldbring to light enough to base a sensational trial upon, whatever theverdict of the jury.
It must not be inferred for a moment that these brilliant andindustrious young men were bloodthirsty. They knew that if Mrs. Balfamehad committed the crime and could be induced to make a defiantconfession, it was more than probable that she would go scot free; thatin no case was there more than a bare possibility of a woman of her age,position and appearance being sent to the chair. But it is these alert,resourceful, ruthless young men who make the newspapers we read withsuch interest twice a day; it is they who write the columns of "news"that we skip if dull (with a mental reservation to change ournewspaper), or devour without a th
ought of the tireless individualactivities that re-supply us daily with our strongest impersonalinterests. Sometimes a trifle more sparkle or vitality, or a deepernote, will wring from us that facile comment, "How well written!"without a pause to reflect that mere good writing never made anewspaper, or to hazard a guess that behind the column that thrilled uswere hours, perhaps weeks, of incessant unravelling of clues, offollowing a scent in the dark, with death at every turn. It is thebusiness of reporters to furnish news of vital interest to a pamperedpublic, and as so large a part of it is furnished to them by theweaknesses and misdeeds of mankind, what wonder that the reporters growcynical and make no bones about providing clues that will lead, at theleast, to many columns charged with suspense and sensational humaninterest!
These young men knew the moment the Balfame case "broke" that it was bigwith possibilities; they scented a mystery that would be cleared by thearrest of no local politician; and they knew the interlocking socialrelationships of these loyal old communities. It was "up to them" tosolve the mystery, and by a process of elimination, spurred by their owndesire to give the public the best the market afforded, they arrived atMrs. Balfame.
Within forty-eight hours they were hot on her trail. Among other things,they discovered that she was an expert shot at a target; but did shekeep a pistol in the house? She had used one, kept for target purpose,out at the Country Club, and it was impossible to verify the rumor thatin common with many another, she had one in the house as a protectionagainst burglars and tramps.
At their instigation, Phipps, the local chief of police, had reluctantlyconsented to interrogate her on this point (a mere matter of form, heassured her), and she had replied blandly that she never had possessed apistol. The chief apologised and withdrew. He was of a respectableBrabant family himself, and was horrified that a member of the good oldorder should even be brushed by the wing of suspicion. Being a quietfamily man and a Republican to boot, he had never approved of DaveBalfame, and had only refrained from arresting him upon more than oneoccasion--notably a week or two since when he had publicly blacked theeye of Miss Billy Gump--out of deference to the good name of Elsinore;and after all, they were both Elks and had spun many a yarn in thecomfortable clubrooms. Inheritance, circumstances, and a fine commoncontempt for the inferior brands of whiskey, had made them "stand intogether, whatever happened." The chief had no love for Mrs. Balfame,for she had frozen him too often, but she was the pride of Elsinore andhe was alert to defend her.
It had never occurred to Mrs. Balfame that she would incur even apassing suspicion, and she had left the pistol in the pocket of herautomobile coat. Immediately after the visit of the chief of police shetook the pistol into the sewing-room, locked the door, covered thekeyhole, and buried the weapon in the depths of an old sofa. As herlarge strong fingers had mended furniture many times, no one wouldsuspect that this ancient piece (dating back to the first Balfame) hadbeen tampered with. She performed the operation with haughty reluctance,but the instinct of self-preservation abides in the proudest souls, andMrs. Balfame had the wit to realise that it was by far the better partof valour.
The shooting occurred on Saturday night. By Wednesday all the horrors ofthe criminal episode were over and she felt as young as she looked, andat liberty to begin life again, a free and happy woman. Her mourning wasperfect.
She made up her mind to see the newspaper men and have done with it.They had haunted the grounds--no patrols could keep them out--sat on thedoorstep, forced their way into the kitchen, and rung the frontdoor-bell so frequently that hourly she expected the scowling Frieda togive notice. Mr. Cummack told her repeatedly that she might as well givein first as last and she finally agreed with him.
It was five o'clock in the afternoon when they were admitted to thespacious old-fashioned parlour with its incongruous modern notes.
Like many women, Mrs. Balfame had an admirable taste in dress, so longas she marched with the conventions, but neither the imagination nor thetraining to create the notable room. Long since she had banished the old"body brussels" carpet and substituted rugs subdued in colour ifcommonplace in design. The plush "set" had not gone to the auction room,however, but had been reupholstered with a serviceable "tapestrycovering." A what-not still stood in one corner, and both centre-tableand mantel were covered with marble, although the wax works that onceembellished them were now in the garret. The wall paper, which had beenput on the year before, was a neutral pale brown. Nevertheless, it was ahomelike room, for there were two rocking-chairs and three easy chairs;and on a small side-table was Mrs. Balfame's workbasket. On the marblecentre-table was a most artistic lamp. The curtains matched thefurniture.
There were ten reporters from New York, two from Brooklyn, three fromBrabant County, and four correspondents. Word had been passed during themorning that Mrs. Balfame would see the newspaper men, and they werethere in force; those that were not "on the job all the time" havingloyally been notified by those that were. But they had stolen a march onthe women. Not a "sob-sister" was in that intent file, led by JamesBroderick of _The New York Morning News_, that entered the Balfame houseand parlour on Wednesday at five o'clock.
Frieda had announced that her mistress would be "down soon," and Mr.Broderick immediately drew the curtains back from the four long windows,and placed a comfortable chair for Mrs. Balfame in a position where shewould face both the light and her visitors. It was not the first stagethat the astute Mr. Broderick had set; and whenever he was on a case hefell naturally into the position of leader; not only had he the mostalert and driving, the most resourceful and penetrative mind, but hisgood looks and suave manner inspired confidence in the victim, and ledhim insensibly into damaging admissions. He was a tall slim young man, agraduate of Princeton, not yet thirty, with a regular face and warmcolouring, and an expression so pleasant that the keenness of his eyespassed unnoted. In general equipment and dress he was typical of hiskind, unless they took to drink and grew slovenly; but his more emphaticendowment enabled him to take the lead among a class of men whom herespected too thoroughly to antagonise with arrogance.
"Late--to make an impression!" he growled, but young Ryder Bruce of theevening edition of his paper nudged him. Mrs. Balfame was on thestaircase opposite the parlour doors.
The young men stood up and watched her as she slowly descended, herblack dress clinging to her tall rather rigid figure, her head high, herprofile as calm as marble, her eye as devoid of expression as ifawaiting the click of the camera.
The reporters were prejudiced on the spot, so impatient are newspapermen of any sort of pose or attempt to impress them. As she entered theroom she greeted them pleasantly, looking straight at them with herlarge cold eyes, and allowed herself to be conducted to a chair by thepolite Mr. Broderick.
She knew that in her high unrelieved black she looked older than common,but this was a deliberately calculated effect. She was not as adroit asshe would have been after recurrent experiences with the press, butinstinct warned her to look the dignified middle-aged widow, quite abovethe coquetry of the bare throat of fashion, or of tempering her weedswith soft white lawn.
As Mr. Broderick made a little speech of gratitude for her graciousreception of the press, she appraised her guests. The greater numberwere well-groomed, well-dressed, well-bred in effect, very sure ofthemselves; altogether a striking contrast to the local reporters thathad come in on their heels.
She answered Mr. Broderick diffidently: "I have never been interviewed.I am afraid you will hardly find--what do you call it?--a story?--inme."
"We don't wish to be too personal," he said gently, "but the public istremendously interested in this case, and more particularly in you. Itisn't always that it takes an interest in the wife of a murderedman--but--well, you see, you are such a personality in this community.We really must have an interesting interview." He smiled at her with acharming expression of masculine indulgence that made her own eyessoften. "You see--don't you--we hate to intrude--but--we understand thatyou had a serious quarrel with y
our husband on the last day of his life.Would you mind telling us what you did after leaving the Country Club?"
She gave him a frozen stare, but recalled Mr. Cummack's warning not totake offence--"for remember that these men have their living to get, andif they fall down on their job they don't get it. Blame their paper, notthem."
"That is a surprising question," she said sweetly. "Do you expect me toanswer it?"
"Why not? Of course you read the newspapers. You know we have told thepublic of the scene at the clubhouse already--and with no detriment toyou! It was a very dramatic scene, and every moment that you passed fromthat time until Mr. Balfame fell at his gate will be of the mostabsorbing interest to the public. In fact, they will eat it up."
Mrs. Balfame shrugged her shoulders. "As a matter of fact I have notread a newspaper since the--" She set her lips and her eyes grewhard--"the crime. I know you have written a great deal about it, but ithasn't interested me. Well--Dr. Anna Steuer drove me home, and shortlyafter I went up to my room--"
"Pardon me; let us take things in their turn. You took a box of sardinesand some bread from the pantry, did you not?"
"I did." Mrs. Balfame's tones were both puzzled and bored.
"And then you were interrupted." As she raised her eyebrows, hecontinued. "The appearance of the sardine can indicated that."
She gave him a brilliant smile, her substitute for the average woman'smerry laugh. "You are teaching me how they write those intricatedetective tales my husband was so fond of. It is true that I wasinterrupted, but it is equally true that I should probably have left thecan as you found it in any case, for I soon realised that I was nothungry. I had had sandwiches at the club, and although I always think itbest to eat something before retiring, I was hardly hungry enough forsardines--"
"You ate sandwiches at the club? I have been out there once or twiceand never saw--I was under the impression that during the afternoon theyoung people danced and the matrons played bridge before an earlydinner."
"Did you?" Mrs. Balfame's eyes and tones abashed even Mr. Broderick, andhe tacked hastily: "Oh, well, that is immaterial, as the lawyers say.And of course you ladies may have sandwiches served in the bridge rooms.May I ask what interrupted you?"
"My husband telephoned from Mr. Cummack's house that he was obliged togo to Albany at once and asked me to pack his suitcase."
"Yes, we have seen the suitcase. You suggested, did you not--over thetelephone--making him a glass of lemonade with aromatic and bromide init?"
Mrs. Balfame experienced an obscure thrill of alarm, but her haughtystare betrayed nothing. One of the reporters whose "job" it was to watchher hands, noted that they curved rigidly. "And may I ask how you found_that_ out? Really, I think I feel even more curiosity than you do."
"He told it to Cummack and the other men present as a good joke, addingthat you knew your business."
"I did. The matter had passed entirely out of my mind. More momentousthings have happened since! Well--I made the glass of lemonade and leftit on the dining-room table; then I went upstairs and packed hissuitcase--"
"One moment. What became of that glass of lemonade? No one remembershaving seen it, although I have made very particular inquiries."
Mrs. Balfame by this time was quite cold, but her brain was workingalmost as quickly as Mr. Broderick's. She uncurved her fingers andsmiled. But her keen brain-sword had one edge only; the other was dullwith inexperience. She knew nothing of the vast practice of newspapermen in detecting the lie.
"Oh--I drank it myself." She had drawn her brows for a moment as if inan effort of memory. "When I heard the noise outside--when I heard themsay 'coroner'--and realised that something dreadful had happened, I randownstairs. Then I suddenly felt faint and remembered the lemonade withthe aromatic spirits of ammonia and bromide in it. I ran into thedining-room and drank it--fortunately!"
"And what became of the glass?"
"Oh!" Mrs. Balfame was now righteously indignant. "How do I know? Or anyone else? Frieda, soon after, began to make coffee by the quart--and Idon't doubt whisky was brought round from the Elks. Who could havenoticed a glass more or less?"
"Frieda swears she never saw it."
"She has the worst memory of any servant I ever had, and that is sayinga good deal."
Mr. Broderick regarded her with admiration. He distrusted her more everymoment, but he had realised at once that he had no ordinary woman todeal with, and he rejoiced in the clash of wits.
The other young men were sitting forward, almost breathless, and Mrs.Balfame was now fully alive to the danger of her position. But allsensation of fear had left her. All the iron in her nature fused in thecrucible of those terrible moments and came forth finely tempered steel.
"Anything more?"
"Oh--ah--yes. Would you mind telling us what you did after you hadpacked the suitcase and brought it downstairs?"
"I went up to my room and began to undress for bed."
"But that must have been quite fifteen minutes before Mr. Balfame'sreturn. He walked from Cummack's house, which is about a mile from here.It was noticed that you merely had taken your dress off. Would you nothave had time to get into bed?"
"If I were a man. But I had my hair to brush--with fifty strokes; and--alittle nightly massage, if you will have it. Besides, I had intended togo down and lock the front door after my husband had left."
"Ah!" The admiration of the young men mounted higher. They disliked hercoldly, if only for that lack of sex-magnetism, which men, particularlyyoung men, naive in their extensive surface psychology, take as apersonal affront. They did not believe a word she said, and they did notgive her and her possible fate a throb of sympathy, but they generouslypronounced her "a wonder."
Mr. Broderick took a chance shot. "And did you not during that time lookout of the window--toward the grove?"
Mrs. Balfame hesitated the fraction of a minute, then wisely returned toher know-nothing policy. "Why should I? Certainly not. I heard no soundout there. I am not in the habit of examining the grounds from my windowat night. It is enough to go through the lower rooms before I lock up."
"But your window was dark when the men ran over from Gifning's afterhearing the shot. They remember that. Do you brush your hair--and--andmassage in the dark?"
Mrs. Balfame sat back in her chair with the resigned air of the victimwho expects an interview with inquisitive newspaper men to last allnight. "No. But I sometimes sit in the dark. I told you that I intendedto sit up--partly dressed--until my husband had gone. I did not feellike reading, and my eyes were tired. As you know so much, you may haveguessed that I cried a little after that trying afternoon. I do notoften cry, and my eyes stung."
"But you had forgiven your husband?"
"I had forgiven him many times before. I infer that you know that also."
"Mrs. Balfame, is it not true that about two years ago you contemplatedobtaining a divorce?"
This time her eyes flashed with anger. "I see that my kind friends havebeen gossiping. You would seem to have interviewed everybody in town."
"Pretty nearly. But you don't seem to realise that Elsinore--BrabantCounty, for that matter--has talked of nothing else but this case forthe last four days."
"I did think of a divorce for a short time, but I never mentioned it tohim, and as soon as I thought it all out I dismissed the idea. In thefirst place, divorce is against the principles of the school in which Iwas brought up, and in the second Mr. Balfame was a good husband in hisway. Every woman has some sort of a heavy cross to bear, and I guessmine was lighter than most. The trouble is, we American women expecttoo much. I dismissed the subject so completely from my mind that I hadpractically forgotten it."
"Ah--yes--we thought you might have seen some one lurking in the groveand gone down to investigate." This was another chance shot. He washoping for a "lead."
Mrs. Balfame thought him inspired.
For the moment the cold brilliant eyes of the woman and the keencontracted eyes of the reporter met and cla
shed. Then Mrs. Balfamedisplayed her teeth in her sweet and charming smile. "What a trulymasculine inference. You don't know me. If I had seen anything I shouldhave flown to the telephone and called the police."
"You look indomitable," murmured Mr. Broderick. "But will you tell ushow it happened that you did not hear the shot? The men down atGifning's did."
"They were standing on the porch, and I think now that I did hear theshot. But my windows were closed. I hear tires burst constantly. Andthat was Saturday night. The machines turn off just below our gate intoDawbarn Street, especially if they are bound for Beryl Myrtle's roadhouse."
"True." Broderick leaned forward, staring at the carpet. He permittedthe silence to last quite a minute. Even Mrs. Balfame, who hadcongratulated herself that the inquisition must be nearly over, stirreduneasily, so sinister was that silence.
The other men knew the Broderick method too well to spoil one of hisdesigns; they sat in expectant stillness and turned upon Mrs. Balfame abattery of eyes.
Suddenly Broderick raised his head and his sharp boring gaze darted intohers. "I had not fully intended to tell you of a discovery made by oneof us yesterday. We have told no one as yet--waiting for just the rightmoment to publish it. But I think I'll tell you. There is evidence thattwo revolvers were fired that night. One killed David Balfame, and abullet from the other penetrated the tree before the house and slightlyto the right of where he must have stood for a moment. Bruce heredug it out. Now, not only did the men at Gifning's not hear twoshots--indicating that they were fired simultaneously--but one bulletcame from a .38 and the other from a .41."
Mrs. Balfame stood up. "Really, gentlemen, I did not consent to see youin order to help you solve riddles. But possibly you know better than Ithat gunmen generally travel in pairs. I am convinced that my husband--"(they applauded her for not saying "my poor husband") "was killed by oneof those creatures, hired by his political enemies. Unless I can tellyou something more of interest--if, indeed, you have found anything tointerest the great New York public in this interview--I will ask you toexcuse me."
The young men were politely on their feet. "And you have no pistol--norever had?"
She laughed outright. "Are you trying to fasten the crime on me?"
"Oh, no, indeed. Only, in a case like this, one leaves no stoneunturned--I hope you do not think we are rude."
"I only just realise that quite the most polite young men I have evermet have been hoping to make me incriminate myself. If I had not been sodense I should have dismissed you long since. Good night."
And, once more looking human in her just indignation, she lifted herproud head and swept out of the room.
The young men left the house and adjourned to a private room in the rearof their favourite saloon. For twenty minutes they rehearsed theinterview carefully, those that had taken notes correcting any lapses ofmemory on the part of those that had elected to watch as well as listen.
Broderick and many of the men were firmly of the opinion that Mrs.Balfame had committed the crime; others believed that she was shieldingsome one else; the less experienced were equally positive that no guiltywoman taken off her guard repeatedly, as she had been, could "put itover" like that. She had "talked and acted like an innocent woman."
"She acted, all right," said Broderick. "I for one am convinced that shedid it. But whether she did or didn't, she's got to be indicted andtried. This case, boys, is too big to throw away--too damned big; andshe's already a personality to the public. She's the only one we havethe ghost of a chance with; the only one whose arrest and trial wouldkeep the interest going--"
"But say!" It was the youngest reporter that interrupted. "I call itlowdown to fasten a crime on a possibly innocent woman--a lady--keep herin jail for months; try her for murder! Why, even if she were acquitted,she would carry the stigma through life."
"Don't get sentimental, sonny," said Broderick patiently. "Sentiment isto the vanquished in this game. When you've been it as long as the restof us you'll know that in nine cases out of ten the real solution ofany mystery is the simplest. Balfame drank. He had a violent temper whendrunk. He was a dog at best. She must have hated him. Look at her. Wehave reason to believe that she did hate him and that her friends knewit. She thought of divorce two years ago. Gave it up because she wasafraid of losing her leadership in this provincial hole. Look at her.She is as proud as Lucifer. And as hard as nails. There had been an uglyscene at the club that afternoon. He mortified her publicly. She was soovercome she had to leave. I've a hunch she poisoned that lemonade andgot it out of the way in time. She's the sort that would think of nearlyeverything. Not quite, of course. Otherwise she would never haveinvented on the spur of the moment that story about drinking it herself;she'd have had the assumption on tap that one of the neighbours haddrunk it. That complication, however, is yet to prove. It merely pointsa finger at her--straight; what we've got to prove and prove quick isthat she was out of doors when that shot was fired--"
"Would you like to see her in the chair?" gasped young Loring.
"Good Lord, no. Not the least danger. Women of that sort don't go to thechair. If she even got a term, I'd head a petition to let her out, forshe's a dead game sport, and I'm only after good front page stuff." Heturned to Ryder Bruce of the evening edition of his newspaper. "You makelove to that German hired girl. She hates us all, for we represent thereal American press--that hasn't a hyphen in it. I sensed that. And Idon't believe she's all the fool she looks. I believe she can tellsomething--few servants that can't--and that she only pretended at theinquest that she knew nothing because she was nearly dead with pain andwanted it over. Well, she had the tooth out this morning, and at leastshe isn't quite as hideous as she was; so go to it, old boy. Get 'roundher and do it quick. Use money if necessary. There's not a day to lose.Find out what she wants most--probably it's to send her sweetheart atthe front something more substantial than mitts and bands. Got me?"
"I get you," said young Bruce gloomily. "You've picked me out becauseI'm blond and round faced and can pass myself off as a German. I wishI'd been born an Italian. Nice job, making love to _that_. But I'll doit."
"Good boy. Well, s'long. I'm off on a trail of my own. I'll reportlater. May be nothing in it."