“Oh, don't be silly, Tony!” Mrs. Bechcombe interposed fretfully. “Of course we are all sure that you would not have hurt your uncle. We want to know if you saw anyone—if you met this wicked woman——”
Tony stared at her.
“What wicked woman? What do you mean, Aunt Madeline?”
“The woman who left her glove in his room, the woman who killed my husband,” Mrs. Bechcombe returned, her breath coming quickly and nervously, her hands clenching and unclenching themselves.
“My dear Madeline,” Mr. Steadman interrupted her, “I do not think it possible that the crime could have been committed by a woman.”
“And I am sure that it was,” she contradicted stormily. “Women are as powerful as men nowadays and Luke was not strong. He had a weak heart.” And with the last words she burst into a very tempest of tears.
Her cousin looked at her pityingly.
“Well, well, my dear girl! At any rate the police are searching everywhere for this woman. The finding her can only be a matter of a few days now. I am going to send your maid to you.” He signed to the other men and they followed him out of the room. “Do her all the good in the world to cry it out,” he remarked confidentially when he had closed the door. “I haven't seen her shed a tear yet. Now I am going to see Inspector Furnival before the inquest opens. That, of course, will be absolutely formal, at first. Can I give any of you a lift?”
“I think not, thank you,” Mr. Collyer responded. “There must be some—er—arrangements to be made here and it is quite possible we may be of some real service.”
Both young men looked inclined to dissent, but the barrister proffered no further invitation and a minute or two later they saw him drive off.