“Ah—yes; and did you—you and Mrs. Embury—discuss the poison used by the wicked uncle?”
“Not lately. But in class we discussed that—years ago—oh, that’s one of the regulation Shakespearean puzzles. You can’t trip us up on our Shakespeare—either of us! I doubt if you can find two frivolous society women who know it better than we do!”
“Did you know that Mr. Embury was killed in a manner identical with the Hamlet murder?”
“No! What do you mean? I’ve really not heard the details. As soon as I heard of his death, I called up Eunice, but, as I said, she wasn’t cordial at all. Then I was busy with my own guests after that—last night and this morning—well, I’m really hardly awake yet!”
Fifi rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand—a childish gesture, and daintily smothered a slight yawn.
“But I’m awfully interested,” she went on, “only—only I can’t bear to hear about—a—murder! The details, I mean. I should think Eunice would go crazy! I should think she’d be glad to come here—I was going to ask her, when she called me down! But, what do you mean—killed like Hamlet’s father?”
“Yes; there was poison introduced into his ear as Mr. Embury slept—”
“Really! How tragic; How terrible! Who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to discover. Could—do you think Mrs. Embury could have had sufficient motive—”
“Eunice!” Fifi screamed. “What an idea! Eunice Embury to kill her own husband! Oh, no!”