She had found the house of George Copplestone plunged into the darkness of a house of mourning. Every blind was drawn. Every particle of color had been removed or draped. Black reigned supreme.
Copplestone was not pleased to see her, and made no attempt to assume the contrary. He was sitting in his library, moody and melancholy, still in the half-dazed condition into which the death of Christine Manderson had cast him. His face was drawn, haggard, and sickly; his eyes were bloodshot. He looked up at her with a forbidding frown, and did not move from his chair.
"Well?" he said curtly.
She waved a hand round the black room.
"Isn't this ... a trifle theatrical?" she asked coolly.
He said nothing. She sat down opposite to him uninvited. She was perfectly self-possessed.
"Inspector Fay was kind enough to call on me this morning," she remarked pleasantly.
Again there was no reply.
"He may not be an example of dagger-like intelligence," she continued, looking at him steadily—"but he is just a little too sharp to play with."
He scowled at her.