“Oh, does any one think it was you?”
“Yes, the police think so.”
“The police! That Roberts man! Oh, why—why did I ever have Madame Orienta come here? But we will prove it was not you, my Eugene—we will prove it.”
“Yes, Joyce, my darling, we will, for we must. To whom have you told this story of sitting with your face bowed in the pillow?”
“To no one. Oh, yes, to the people in the house, of course. Barry and Beatrice, and, of course, little Natalie. Oh, Eugene, I was so glad when the Priestess’ story seemed to clear Natalie and me of all suspicion of guilt. But if it has implicated you, that is a thousand times worse!”
“No, not worse. A man can fight injustice better than a woman. Have you told Roberts?”
“About the pillow? No, I don’t think so. But he’ll find it out. That man digs into everything.”
“You invited him, yourself, to the séance?”
“Yes. I thought it wise. I thought it would implicate some stranger and I wanted him to hear.”
“Why did you think it would accuse a stranger? Look here, Joyce, you didn’t employ that woman to cook up a yarn, did you?”