“I’ve been to New York,” the girl replied, as she flung off her motor coat, and threw herself into a big armchair. “Give me some tea, please, and I’ll tell you all about it. I’ve engaged Alan Ford.”
“Who is he?” asked Beatrice, fixing a cup of tea as Natalie liked it.
“He’s a great, big, splendid detective—I mean big in his profession—and he’s also the biggest man I ever saw, physically.”
“Well, I am glad!” exclaimed Joyce. “I think Mr. Roberts has done all he could, but I don’t think he has much real cleverness. Do you, Beatrice?”
“No. And yet, we oughtn’t to judge him too harshly. He’s had a hard time of it, for every new bit of evidence he gets, or thinks he gets, seems to point to some one of the family here.”
“I know it,” agreed Natalie, “but Alan Ford will find the real murderer and then we’ll all be freed of suspicion.”
“What’s that, Natalie? Alan Ford!” And into the room strode Barry Stannard.
Natalie’s face shone with welcome. “How did you get here?” she cried; “I thought you were arrested!”
“Even a murder suspect can get bail if he has money enough,” said Barry, “and there were other reasons. They wouldn’t swallow my confession whole. But never mind that now; tell me, did you say Alan Ford is coming?”
“I did, Barry, dear. I went and got him. And just in time, too, for he was going West at once. But he’s staying over for us, and he’s coming out here to-morrow morning. Isn’t it fine!”