She had a dozen noisy assistants. I waved at her from the further door as we ducked. Strange that honest, sound little thing should be own sister to the doll-faced vamp out there in the showcase.
Edwards made for a little writing room at the end of a corridor. I followed his long, nervous stride. If the man had been goaded to the shooting of Thomas Gilbert, it would have been an act of passion, and by passion he would betray himself. When I had him alone, the door shut, I went to it, told him we knew the death was murder, not suicide, and that the crime had been committed early Saturday night. Before I could connect him with it, he broke in on me,
"Is Worth suspected?"
"Not by me," I said. "And by God, not by you, Edwards! You know better than that."
I held his eye, but read nothing beyond what might have been the flare of quick anger for the boy's sake.
"Who then?" he said. "Who's dared to lisp a word like that? That hound Cummings—chasing around Santa Ysobel with Bowman—is that where it comes from? I told Worth the fellow was knifing him in the back." He began to stride up and down the room. "The boy's got other friends—that'll go their length for him. I'm with him till hell freezes over. You can count on me—"
"Exactly what I wanted to find out," I cut in, so significantly that he whirled at the end of his beat and stared.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you are the one man who could clear Worth Gilbert of all suspicion."
"What do you know?"