“Oh, yes, I know about that feud thing,” and Zizi smiled tolerantly; “but that’s a sort of obsession or idiosyncrasy of the two women. Really, Mrs Everett is a good-natured lady, and you needn’t have any fights with your mother-in-law, unless you make them yourself.”
“Don’t be flippant, Zizi,” warned Wise. “This isn’t the time for banter.”
“It’s the time for action,” said Zizi, springing from her seat. “I’m going straight to Miss Prall with the whole story, and I think we’ll learn a lot. Are you men coming with me?”
Like sheep, Bates and Wise followed her.
Pennington Wise was really more at a loss than he had ever before found himself. The indisputable evidence of the dying man’s message was all he really had to work on, and his work on that was not productive, so far, of success. The women accused must be found. But Wise, while he realized there were no other suspects, couldn’t think the two ladies of Feud fame were the ones.
True enough, they could both be said to have had motive, and, in the house, anybody could be said to have had opportunity, yet both motive and opportunity were slight ones, and the latter largely dependent on a convenient chance.
It seemed absurd to think of Mrs Everett,—or Kate Holland,—waiting behind a pillar, and then seeing the victim walk in! And yet he had walked in; somebody had met him and stabbed him, so the other suppositions were, at least, plausible.
The three went to the Prall apartment, and, strange to say, found Miss Letitia in a quiet, placid mood.
She looked at them with a sort of wondering interest, and bade them be seated.
“You’ve been here several days, now, Mr Wise,” she said; “have you made any real progress?”