“The sliding doors were open—the curtains pulled together.”
Glancing at the heavy tapestry curtains in question, Mr. Lamson said quickly: “If they were pulled together, and the room where you were was light, how could you notice when this room went dark?”
Joyce looked bewildered. “I don’t know,” she said, blankly, “how could I?”
The question was so naive, and the brown eyes so puzzled and troubled, that Bobsy Roberts whistled to himself. But not for want of thought. His thoughts flocked so fast he could scarcely marshal them into line. “Of course,” his principal thought was, “one of these women is guilty. If the crime had been committed by a burglar they wouldn’t have any of this back and forth kiyi with their eyes. Now, the question is, which one?”
Joyce and Natalie had exchanged many glances. But to a stranger they were unreadable, and Roberts contented himself with storing them up in his memory for future consideration. And now, as Joyce looked confused and nonplussed, Natalie seemed a bit triumphant, but she as quickly drooped her eyes and veiled whatever emotion they showed.
“But you are sure you did know when the studio lights went out?” pursued Lamson.
“Why, yes—I think so. You see—it was all so confused——”
“What was?”
“Why,—the lights,—and that queer sound—and——”
“Go on, Mrs. Stannard. Never mind the lights and the sound. You entered the studio from the Billiard Room, and saw——?”