“Oh, don’t, Aunt Letitia,” begged Richard, who was always distressed if obliged to be present when the two “got going,” as Eliza called it. “Now, please, auntie,—please, Mrs Everett, can’t you two forget your private enmity for a few minutes and just settle this big matter? Disarm the suspicions of Mr Gibbs by telling the truth, by stating where you all were at the time of the murder, and so, get yourselves out of all touch with it. Truly, you will be sorry if you don’t. You don’t realize what it will mean if you have to be mixed up in all sorts of witness stands and things.”
“Go ahead, Mr Gibbs,” and Miss Prall glared at the detective. “We owe this unpleasant scene to you,—make it as short as possible.”
“I will,” and Gibbs’ sharp eyes darted from one face to another, for this was his harvest time, and though he expected to learn little from the wily women’s speech, he hoped for much from their uncontrollable outbursts of anger or their involuntary admissions.
It was a strange gathering. Letitia Prall sat on a straight-backed chair, erect and still; but looking like a leashed tiger, ready to spring.
Beside her, trying hard to keep quiet, was Eliza Gurney, small, pale, and with a distracted face and angry eyes that darted venomous glances at the visitors.
Mrs Everett had chosen for her rôle an amused superiority, knowing it would irritate Letitia Prall more than any other manner. She smiled and quickly suppressed it, she stared and then dropped her eyes and she would impulsively begin to say something and then discreetly pause.
All this Gibbs took in and Richard, seeing the detective’s interest, became alarmed. He felt sure there was something sinister concealed in the minds of some or all of the women present and his heart sank at the possible outcome of things.
It was inconceivable that his aunt was in any way concerned in the murder, yet it was even worse to imagine the mother of Dorcas mixed up in it. Of course, it couldn’t be that either of them was really implicated, but he had to recognize the fact that Gibbs was sufficiently convinced of such implication to call this confab.
And it was a confab. The detective did not ask direct questions, but rather brought out voluntary remarks by adroitly suggesting them.
“Now, that paper-knife——” he began, musingly.