“For one thing,” shot out Kennedy, taking advantage of the opportunity, “we have determined that your brother died from the effects of a poisonous gas—I won’t say yet what it was or how administered.”
The light from a window was shining full on Shelby’s face as Craig said it, and he knew that we were all watching intently the effect it would have.
“Is that so?” he replied, with an interest this time unfeigned. “I suppose you know who did it?”
“I have an idea,” replied Kennedy, “a theory on which I am proceeding. But it is too early to talk about it yet.”
If Shelby had been trying to “pump” us he was getting something to think about, at least. I felt sure that Craig was telling the family this much in the hope that it would spur them to some action, or at least reach ears that would be affected.
It was while Kennedy was talking that I noticed that Winifred showed her first real interest in what was going on about her. She was about to ask a question when the sound of footsteps on the veranda interrupted. If I had wondered what the cause of the coolness between Shelby and Winifred was I had here a partial answer at least.
Again, as though to foment trouble, Paquita crossed the veranda and walked slowly down the steps to the Casino, whence floated the rhythmic strains of the orchestra. Though she did not know it, she produced the result she sought. A few minutes later Winifred excused herself to retire to her room, her question still unasked and unanswered.
Shelby bowed a reluctant good-night, but I could see that inwardly he was furious. And I felt impelled to ask myself, also, why Paquita was so apparently dogging Shelby’s every step. Could it be that the notorious little heart-breaker was actually in love with him—or had she some darker motive?