“No, he didn’t.”
“But, Miss Dupuy, it would scarcely be possible to think that if he did return later to ask his release—it would not be possible to think that on Miss Van Norman’s refusal to release him he—was so incensed against her that——”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Cicely. “Of course he didn’t kill her! Of course he didn’t! She killed herself! I don’t care what any one says—I know she killed herself!”
“If so,” said Fessenden, “we must prove it by keeping on with our investigations. And now, Miss Dupuy, will you tell me what was your errand when you returned to the library late last night, when the two doctors were alone there in charge of the room?”
“I didn’t!” declared Cicely, her cheeks flaming and her blue eyes fairly glaring at her interrogator.
“Please stick to the truth, Miss Dupuy,” said Fessenden coldly. “If you don’t, we can’t credit any of your statements. You opened the door very softly, and were about to enter, when you spied the doctors and withdrew.”
“I went to get that paper,” said Cicely, somewhat sulkily.
“Why did you want that?”
“Because it was mine. I had a right to it.”
“Then why didn’t you go on in and get it? The doctors’ presence need have made no difference.”