“Can’t say,” concluded the man. “What’s more, can’t try. It’s against the rules. Only your knowing so many he knows has got you this far. You’ll have to call on a regular day or by appointment to see him, gentlemen.”
There was an air of finality about the last statement that made Kennedy rise and move toward the door with a hearty “Thank you, for your kindness,” and a wish to be remembered to “poor old Thornton.”
As we climbed into the car he poked me in the ribs. “Just as good for the present as if we had seen him,” he exclaimed. “Drug-fiend, friend of Mrs. Pitts, committed by Dr. Lord, no wounds.”
Then he lapsed into silence as we sped back to the city.
“The Pitts house,” ordered Kennedy as we bowled along, after noting by his watch that it was after nine. Then to me he added, “We must see Mrs. Pitts once more, and alone.”
We waited some time after Kennedy sent up word that he would like to see Mrs. Pitts. At last she appeared. I thought she avoided Kennedy’s eye, and I am sure that her intuition told her that he had some revelation to make, against which she was steeling herself.
Craig greeted her as reassuringly as he could, but as she sat nervously before us, I could see that she was in reality pale, worn, and anxious.
“We have had a rather hard day,” began Kennedy after the usual polite inquiries about her own and her husband’s health had been, I thought, a little prolonged by him.
“Indeed?” she asked. “Have you come any closer to the truth?”
Kennedy met her eyes, and she turned away.