“Practically what was in the note,” exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner.
“Almost,” returned Roberts. “Now was Miss Vernon there and were these words addressed to her? this question being quite apart from consideration of her as the criminal.”
“If so, then the letter was to her,” said Beatrice.
“And it wasn’t,” maintained Barry. “My father admired Natalie,—made love to her, we’ll say, but he never went so far as to offer her jewels, nor did she want him to marry her, as the overheard conversation implies.”
“Could this be the way of it?” said Beatrice. “Suppose Mr. Stannard was even then writing that note——”
“But it was found in his desk.”
“Well, suppose he was thinking it over, and muttered to himself the actual wording of it. Mrs. Stannard says she heard no other voice, so may he not have been alone in the studio at that time?”
Bobsy Roberts turned this over in his mind. “It is a possibility,” he conceded. “And then, let us say, after hearing those words, Mrs. Stannard entered the room, and confronted him, and perhaps there was a quarrel and in a moment of insane rage, Mrs. Stannard caught up the etching needle and——”
“It isn’t at all like her,” said Barry, “but I can only say it is more easily to be conceived of in her case than in Natalie’s. I don’t want to admit the possibility of Joyce being the criminal, but I can believe it, before I can imagine Natalie doing such a thing. And as you say, Joyce had motive, and Natalie had none.”
“I won’t subscribe entirely to that, Mr. Stannard. Miss Vernon inherits a goodly sum, and too, she may have been incensed at the manner of the artist toward her——”