“Now you look here!” said Miss Letitia, angrily. “I can’t answer forty-seven questions at once! Nor other people can’t, either. You talk more slowly, sir, and more rationally.”
But Corson heeded her not at all. He turned to Bates.
“Your uncle, eh? You his heir?”
“Yes, he is!” Miss Prall answered for him, and Corson’s roving glance took her in and returned to Bates. “Where were you when he was killed?”
“In bed,” replied Richard, shortly.
“Oh; all right. Now, I’ll take charge of this paper, for there’s little doubt but it’s mighty important.” He folded it carefully into his pocket-book. “Was this gentleman—er, addicted to ladies’ society?”
“That he was,” Moore spoke up, involuntarily.
“I didn’t ask you,” said Corson. “I asked Mr. Bates.”
“Why, yes,” said Richard, “he did like the society of ladies,—but most men do.”
“We’re not discussing the matter, Mr. Bates,” and for once Corson looked steadily at him, “we’re just looking into it. And—” he paused, impressively, “and these immediate, right-away-quick questions are pretty good first aid, as a rule.”