“N—, no.”
“He did,” and Driscoll nodded his head, as if not minding Eunice’s stammered denial, but not believing it, either.
“Now, as he closed that door with a bang, ma’am, I gather that you two had a—well, say, a little tiff—a quarrel. Might as well own up, ma’am,—it’ll come out, and it’s better you should tell me the truth.”
“I am not accustomed to telling anything else!” Eunice declared, holding herself together with a very evident effort. “Mr. Embury and I had a slight difference of opinion, but not enough to call a quarrel.”
“What about?” broke in Shane, who had been listening intently.
Eunice did not speak until Elliott advised her. “Tell all Eunice—it is the best way.”
“We had a slight discussion,” Eunice said, “but it was earlier in the evening. We had spent the evening out—Mr. Embury at his club, and I at the house of a friend. We came home together—Mr. Embury called for me in our own car. On reaching home, we had no angry words—and as it was late, we retired at once. That is all. Mr. Embury closed the door between our bedrooms, and that is the last I ever saw of him until—this morning—”
She did not break down, but she seemed to think she had told all and she ceased speaking.
“And then he was dead,” Shane mused. “What doctor did you call?”
Dr. Crowell took up the narrative and told of Dr. Harper and Dr. Marsden, who were not now present. He told further of the mysterious and undiscoverable cause of the death.