“That won’t do, ma’am,” said Shane, in his heavy voice, which was coarse and uncultured but not intentionally rude. “I’m here to ask questions and you people have got to answer ‘em. Mebbe I can put it different. Was you and Mr. Embury on good terms?”
“Certainly.” The word was forced from Eunice’s scornful lips, and accompanied by an icy glance meant to freeze the detective, but which utterly failed.
“No rows or disagreements, eh?” Shane’s smile was unbearable, and Eunice turned and faced him like an angry thing at bay.
“I forbid you to speak to me,” she said, and looked at Shane as if he were some miserable, crawling reptile. “Mason, will you answer this man for me?”
“No, no, lady,” Shane seemed to humor her. “I must get your own word for it. Don’t you want me to find out who killed your husband? Don’t you want the truth known? Are you afraid to have it told? Hey?”
Shane’s secret theory was that of a sort of third degree applied at the very beginning often scared people into a quick confession of the truth and saved time in the long run.
Driscoll knew of this and did not approve.
“Let up, Shane,” he muttered; “this is no time for such talk. You don’t know anything yet.”
“Go ahead, you,” returned Shane, not unwillingly, and Driscoll did.
“Of course we must ask questions, Mrs. Embury,” he said, and his politeness gained him a hearing from Eunice.