“That’s right about Natalie,” exclaimed Barry, “but it’s unthinkable that Joyce should go so far as to kill——”
“You don’t know all the provocation she may have had,” said Roberts. “A jealous wife, or an unloving wife goes through many hard hours before she reaches the point of desperation, but she sometimes gets there, and then the climax comes. At any rate, if Miss Vernon isn’t guilty, Mrs. Stannard is. You can’t find two women hovering over a dying man, and acquit them both. So it’s one or the other, and I incline toward the suspicion of the older woman.”
“But how do you explain the various clues pointing to Natalie?” asked Beatrice Faulkner.
“Let’s take them one by one. First, that note found on the man’s desk. Even if that were written to Miss Vernon, it needn’t condemn her. Even if she had been in love with the artist, it is no evidence whatever that she killed him. And the whole tone of the note is against its being meant for her. It is unexplained so far, but I can’t look on it as evidence against the model.”
“I agree with that,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “That letter may well have been to some other woman interested in Eric Stannard, and she may have had the emeralds, and, through connivance with a servant, returned them to Joyce last night.”
“No, no, Mrs. Faulkner, that isn’t right. I don’t understand the emerald business altogether, but I thoroughly believe that Mrs. Stannard has had them in her keeping all the time. Now, next, we have the evidence of the dying man’s exclamation. That, I think, is perfectly explained by Miss Vernon’s assertion that he meant he loved her and not his wife.”
“Of course it is,” declared Barry. “I know my father was madly in love with Miss Vernon, and though he was fond of his wife, it was not the first time he had been interested in the pretty face of another woman. I want to say right here, that I revere and respect my father’s memory, but I cannot deny his faults. And he was far too careless of his wife’s feelings in these matters. My mother died many years ago, and for a long time my father led a butterfly existence, outside of his art, yes, and in it, too. Then when he married a second time he did not settle down to the generally accepted model of a married man, but continued to admire pretty women wherever he met them. Now, it is more than likely that in his dying moments his brain half dazed, and seeing the two before him, he protested his love for the model he admired and put her ahead of his wife. I do not defend my father’s speech but to me it is explained.”
“It may be so,” said Roberts. “Now here’s another point. Mrs. Stannard declares she heard her husband talking to another woman or at least to somebody, in his studio, as she herself stood in the Billiard Room, near the connecting door. Shall we say this is an invented story of hers?”
“Let me see,” said Barry, “what were the words?”
“To the effect that he was not willing to leave his wife for her, and that as a consolation she could have the emeralds.”