“At boarding-school. We spent four years together—chums, and all that. Then after we were both married, we drifted together again, here in New York—and somehow Eunice’s husband didn’t take to poor little Fifi one bit! I wonder why!”
Her look of injured innocence was charming, and Shane had to make an effort to keep to the subject in hand.
“So those two men admire Mrs. Embury?”
“Admire is a silly word! They adore her—they worship the ground she walks on! They are, no doubt, decently decorous at the passing of their old friend, but as soon as the funeral baked meats are cold enough, look out for a marriage table on which to serve them!”
“Did—did Mr. Embury realize that his friends so admired his wife?”
“Probably. Yes, of course, he did. But he didn’t care. She was his—she gave them no encouragement—such things aren’t done—” Fifi’s eyes rolled upward—“and, I only tell you, to show you that there are, at least, other directions in which to look!”
“But—let me see—Mr. Hendricks was in Boston at the time of Mr. Embury’s death.”
“Then that lets him out. And Mr. Elliott? Where was he?”
“I haven’t made definite inquiry. Probably he—”
“Probably he has an alibi! Oh, yes, of course he has! And if he killed Sanford Embury, he’s more likely than ever to have a fine alibi! Look here, Mr. Shane, I believe I could give you cards and spades and beat you at your little detective games!”