“Just what I say. Barry has confessed that he killed his father. You suspected him all the time, didn’t you?”
“Did you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t—and yet who else could it have been? I did think of Barry at first, and then I decided it couldn’t be.”
“And then you suspected me?”
“Oh, Natalie, how can I say? I did and I didn’t. I had no notion which way to turn. But now, even though he says so, I can’t believe it was Barry.”
“Barry! Of course it wasn’t Barry!”
“But he confessed, Natalie.”
“Of course he confessed. He couldn’t help it!” As she spoke, Natalie was getting out of bed, and seating herself at her dressing table began to do up her hair. “If you don’t mind going, Joyce, I want to dress. Run along now, I’ll be down very soon.”
“What are you going to do?” Joyce looked at the girl uncertainly, for she was brushing her hair with unwonted vigour. Her eyes were tear-filled, but her face showed a brave, determined expression, and she hurried her toilet as if important matters impended.
“Go now, Joyce,” and rising, Natalie pushed her gently toward the door.