And that was all. Although the newspapers, naturally enough, "played it up" to the extent of columns, it was a crime in what is known as "high life," and they do not come too often for the public. Judge Walbrough had brought the early editions of the afternoon papers with him and permitted Clancy to look at them.
Spofford had not missed his chance. He was hailed as the greatest detective genius of the day.
"Poor Mrs. Carey!" said Clancy.
The others nodded gravely. "Not another woman in New York could live it down," said the judge.
"Why not?" demanded Clancy. "She did nothing wrong."
The judge shrugged.
"Scandal has touched her intimately. That is enough—for any other woman, but not for Sophie Carey. She has too many friends, is too great an artist—let's hope she finds happiness now."
The judge pushed back his chair and left the room, ostensibly in search of a pipe. The others drifted into the living-room. Clancy, staring out at the snow, was suddenly conscious that Vandervent stood at her elbow. She turned, to find that Mrs. Walbrough was no longer with them.
"Nice—nice view—" stammered Vandervent.
Clancy colored. She felt her heart beating.