“Miss Walcott’s acting very strangely, sir,” he ventured. “You’d think she hadn’t a friend in the world.”
“How’s that?” cut in Kennedy.
“I saw her coming up from the beach awhile ago alone,” replied Riley. “First she passed Mrs. Maddox and they scarcely spoke, then later I saw her do the same thing with Mrs. Walcott. They’ve been that way, now, for some time.”
“Where is she—in her room?” asked Burke.
Riley nodded. “Yes.”
“I can’t see any reason why she should stay here, if she feels this way about it,” put in Hastings testily. “She doesn’t belong to the family.”
Kennedy glanced covertly at me. I fancied I understood what was in his mind. Winifred Walcott probably would not have admitted, even to herself, why she stayed.
“That little dancer and Miss Walcott are as friendly as Kilkenny cats, too,” added Riley, with a left-handed attempt at humor.
“You have an X-ray eye,” commented Craig, with veiled sarcasm, which quite amused me, for the detective actually took it literally and thanked him. “Paquita is still about, then?”
“Yes, sir. Right after you went up-stairs she had her car brought around and started out for a spin—down the shore road. But she must have seen that one of our men was following, for she turned up-country and was back again in half an hour. If she intended to do anything, she must have been scared off. She’s up-stairs now, dressing for dinner, I suppose. I’ve got her checkmated. She can’t move without my knowing it—and she knows it.”