“With whom?” and Bobsy looked at her intently.
“With Barry Stannard,” she returned, simply. “We’re engaged, now. We couldn’t be, while Mr. Stannard lived, for he wouldn’t hear of it. Threatened to disinherit Barry, and all that. But now, it’s all right.”
“Miss Vernon, to my mind, that speech clears you of all suspicion. If you had killed Eric Stannard, because he wouldn’t let his son marry you, you never would have referred to it so frankly.”
“Of course I wouldn’t. Now, don’t you see, since I didn’t kill him, it must have been Joyce. It’s been proved over and over that it could not have been a burglar, or anybody like that. And so, I want to stop investigating, and leave Joyce in peace. And then, after awhile, she can marry Eugene Courtenay, and be happy.”
“Does she want to marry Mr. Courtenay?”
“Of course she does. He was in love with her and she with him, before she knew Mr. Stannard. Then Eric came along and stole her,—yes, stole her,—just like a Cave Man. She was carried away by his whirlwind wooing, and—too—he was celebrated, and—well,—you know,—magerful,—and he just took her by storm. She never really loved him, but she has been good and faithful, though he has treated her badly.”
“And if she killed him, it was——”
“It was because she had reached the end of her rope, and couldn’t stand any more. And, too, she has seen a lot of Mr. Courtenay lately, and—oh, well,—she was mad that Eric took such a fancy to me, and so,——”
“Look here, Miss Vernon, just see if you can reconstruct the scene to fit in with a theory of Mrs. Stannard’s guilt.”
“How do you mean?”