“Then you do not feel like continuing the tests we abandoned last night?” asked Kennedy, apparently not noticing her look.
“No, I do not,” she almost snapped. “You—you are detectives. Mrs. Hazleton has sent you.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Hazleton has not sent us,” insisted Kennedy, never for an instant showing his surprise at her mention of the name.
“You are. You can tell her, you can tell everybody. I’ll tell—I’ll tell myself. I won’t wait. That child is mine—mine—not hers. Now—go!”
Veronica Haversham on the stage never towered in a fit of passion as she did now in real life, as her ungovernable feelings broke forth tempestuously on us.
I was astounded, bewildered at the revelation, the possibilities in those simple words, “The child is mine.” For a moment I was stunned. Then as the full meaning dawned on me I wondered in a flood of consciousness whether it was true. Was it the product of her drug-disordered brain? Had her desperate love for Hazleton produced a hallucination?
Kennedy, silent, saw that the case demanded quick action. I shall never forget the breathless ride down from the sanitarium to the Hazleton house on Riverside Drive.
“Mrs. Hazleton,” he cried, as we hurried in, “you will pardon me for this unceremonious intrusion, but it is most important. May I trouble you to place your fingers on this paper—so?”
He held out to her a piece of the prepared paper. She looked at him once, then saw from his face that he was not to be questioned. Almost tremulously she did as he said, saying not a word. I wondered whether she knew the story of Veronica, or whether so far only hints of it had been brought to her.
“Thank you,” he said quickly. “Now, if I may see Morton?”