Craig nodded, then began his own long and careful investigation. He was so busily engaged, and I knew that it was so important to keep him from being interrupted, that I placed myself between him and those who crowded into the little room back of the shop.
But before I knew it a heavily veiled woman had brushed past me and stood before the body.
“Irene Maddox!” I heard Hastings whisper in Kennedy’s ear as Craig straightened up in surprise.
As she stood there there could be no doubt that Irene Maddox had been very bitter toward her husband. The wound to her pride had been deep. But the tragedy had softened her. She stood tearless, however, before the body, and as well as I could do so through her veil I studied her face. What did his death mean to her, aside from the dower rights that came to her in his fortune? It was impossible to say.
She stood there several minutes, then turned and walked deliberately out through the crowd, looking neither to the right nor to the left. I found myself wondering at the action. Yet why should she have shown more emotion? He had been nothing to her but a name—a hateful name—for years.
My speculation was cut short by the peculiar action of a dark-skinned, Latin-American-looking man whose face I had not noticed in the crowd before the arrival of Mrs. Maddox. As she left he followed her out.
Curious, I turned and went out also. I reached the street door just in time to see Irene Maddox climb into a car with two other people.
“Who are they?” I asked a boy standing by the door.
“Mr. and Mrs. Walcott,” he replied.
Even in death the family feud persisted. The Walcotts had not even entered.