The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK TM(338)

                “I do not ask who it was,” I went on, with a quiet wave of my hand that immediately restored him to himself, “for I know you will not tell me. But what I do hope to know is the name of the man who entered that same house at just ten minutes after nine. He was one of the funeral guests, and he arrived in a carriage that was immediately preceded by a coach from which four persons alighted, two ladies and two gentlemen.”



                             “I do not know the gentleman, ma’am,” was the detective’s half-surprised and half-amused retort. “I did not keep track of every guest that attended the funeral.”

                “Then you didn’t do your work as well as I did mine,” was my rather dry reply. “For I noted every one who went in; and that gentleman, whoever he was, was more like the person I have been trying to identify than any one I have seen enter there during my four midnight vigils.”

                Mr. Gryce smiled, uttered a short “Indeed!” and looked more than ever like a sphinx. I began quietly to hate him, under my calm exterior.

                “Was Howard at his wife’s funeral?” I asked.

                “He was, ma’am.”

                “And did he come in a carriage?”

                “He did, ma’am.”

                “Alone?”

                “He thought he was alone; yes, ma’am.”

                “Then may it not have been he?”

                “I can’t say, ma’am.”

                Mr. Gryce was so obviously out of his element under this cross-examination that I could not suppress a smile even while I experienced a very lively indignation at his reticence. He may have seen me smile and he may not, for his eyes, as I have intimated, were always busy with some object entirely removed from the person he addressed; but at all events he rose, leaving me no alternative but to do the same.

                “And so you didn’t recognize the gentleman I brought to the neighboring house just before twelve o’clock,” he quietly remarked, with a calm ignoring of my last question which was a trifle exasperating.

                “No.”



                             “Then, ma’am,” he declared, with a quick change of manner, meant, I should judge, to put me in my proper place, “I do not think we can depend upon the accuracy of your memory;” and he made a motion as if to leave.

                As I did not know whether his apparent disappointment was real or not, I let him move to the door without a reply. But once there I stopped him.

                “Mr. Gryce,” said I, “I don’t know what you think about this matter, nor whether you even wish my opinion upon it. But I am going to express it, for all that. I do not believe that Howard killed his wife with a hat-pin.”

                “No?” retorted the old gentleman, peering into his hat, with an ironical smile which that inoffensive article of attire had certainly not merited. “And why, Miss Butterworth, why? You must have substantial reasons for any opinion you would form.”

                “I have an intuition,” I responded, “backed by certain reasons. The intuition won’t impress you very deeply, but the reasons may not be without some weight, and I am going to confide them to you.”

                “Do,” he entreated in a jocose manner which struck me as inappropriate, but which I was willing to overlook on account of his age and very fatherly manner.