“He shan’t know of it,” was the angry retort. “I got you here, Mr. Stone—”
“To discover the truth, or to free Mrs. Embury?”
There was a pause, and the two men looked at each other. Then Mason Elliott said, in a low voice, “To free Mrs. Embury.”
“I can’t take the case that way,” Stone replied. “I will abandon the whole affair, or—I will find out the truth.”
“Abandon it!” cried a ringing voice, and the door of her bedroom was flung open as Eunice again appeared.
She was in a towering fury, her face was white and her lips compressed to a straight scarlet line.
“Give up the case! I will take my chances with any judge or jury rather than with you!” She faced Stone like the “Tiger” her husband had nicknamed her. “I have heard every word—Aunt Abby’s story—and your conclusions! Your despicable ‘deductions,’ as I suppose you call them! I’ve had enough of the ‘celebrated detective’! Quite enough of Fleming Stone—and his work!”
She stepped back and gazed at him with utter scorn beautiful as a sculptured Medea, haughty as a tragedy queen.
“Independent as a pig on ice!” Fibsy communicated with himself, and he stared at her with undisguised admiration.
“Eunice,” and the pain in Mason Elliott’s voice was noticeable; “Eunice, dear, don’t do yourself such injustice.”