Creighton wheeled swiftly toward the speaker, Krech shot out of his chair as though a powerful spring had been released beneath him, and Miss Ocky darted, birdlike, to the side of a slender figure which swayed in the doorway, gripping the woodwork for support. It was Lucy Varr.
"Lucy! What are you doing down here?" Miss Ocky circled her sister's slender waist with a gently compelling arm. "Come with me!"
"I rang and rang and nobody came. I wanted water. I was so thirsty!" She muttered the words feverishly and the brightness of her big eyes told its own story of a tortured brain. "I heard somebody talking in here—"
"Come, Lucy! I'll bring you the water."
"Was it you who was asking for my son?" Her gaze passed over Krech, whom she appeared vaguely to recognize, and fixed itself on the grave, sympathetic face of the detective. "You're Mr. Creighton, aren't you? They tell me you have come to find out who killed my husband—"
"Lucy, dear! Please—"
"I—I'm sure I wish you luck!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Varr," said Creighton quietly, choosing to ignore the irony in her tone. "I'll do my very best, I promise you."
His promise was made to her retreating figure as she finally permitted her sister to lead her away. Left alone, the two men exchanged a quick glance and were silent for a minute. Then Krech jerked his head toward the door significantly.
"Could it be—her?" he whispered.