“It was scarcely important enough to call a quarrel. My husband and I frequently disagreed on trifling matters. We were both a little short-tempered, and often had altercations that were forgotten as soon as they occurred.”
“And that’s true,” put in Miss Ames. “For two people who loved each other to distraction, I often thought the Emburys were the most quarrelsome I ever saw.”
Shane looked sharply at the old lady. “Is that so?” he said. “Did you hear this particular quarrel, ma’am?”
“Not that I remember. If I did, I didn’t take’ much notice of it.”
“What was it about?”
“Oh, the same old subject. Mrs. Embury wanted—”
“Aunt Abby, hush! What are you talking about! Leave me to tell my own secrets, pray!”
“Secrets, ma’am?” Shane’s cold blue eyes glistened. “Who’s talking of secrets?”
“Nobody,” offered Hendricks. “Seems to me, Shane, you’re trying to frighten two nervous women into a confession—”
“Who said anything about a confession? What’s to be confessed? Who’s made any accusations?”