“Was it?” Natalie spoke slowly, as if to gain time.
“Yes, it was. You knew this?”
“How could I know it? I never saw the will.”
“They think you did. They think you altered it.”
“Who thinks so?”
“The police and Mr. Stiles. And Eugene asked me about it. I thought I’d ask you before anybody else did.”
“That was dear of you, Joyce.” Natalie sat down on a couch, and taking her chin in her two palms, sat silent a moment. “Joyce,” she said, at last, “why are you good to me? You think I killed Eric——”
“No, I don’t, Natalie——But, oh, don’t you see? I don’t want to think it was Eugene, and—I don’t know which way to turn.”
“You’re not in such a terrible strait as I am, Joyce,” and Natalie’s blue eyes turned dark with sadness unutterable. “I don’t know what to do—I’ve no one to ask, no one to confide in——”
“Can’t you tell me?”