“Mr. Carleton’s actions?” The delicate eyebrows lifted as if in perplexity at the question.
“Yes; detail his actions, so far as you know them, from the time he came home to dinner that evening.”
“Why, let me see;” pretty Dorothy looked thoughtful again. “He came to dinner, as usual. Mr. Fessenden was there, but no other guest. After dinner we all sat in the music room. I played a little,—just some snatches of certain music that Mrs. Carleton is fond of. Mr. Carleton and Mr. Fessenden chatted together.”
Rob raised his own eyebrows a trifle at this. Carleton had not been at all chatty; indeed, Fessenden and Mrs. Carleton had sustained the burden of the conversation; and while Miss Burt had played, it had been bits of romantic music that Rob felt sure had been for Schuyler’s delectation more than his mother’s.
“Is that all?” said Mr. Benson.
“Yes, I think so,” said Miss Burt; “we all went to our rooms early, as the next day was the day appointed for Mr. Carleton’s wedding, and we assumed he wanted to be alone.”
Rob looked up astounded. Was she going to make no mention of the stroll in the rose-garden? He almost hoped she wouldn’t, and yet that was certainly the evidence Mr. Benson was after.
“You said good-night to Mr. Carleton at what time, then?” was the next rather peculiar question.
It might have been imagination, but Fessenden thought the girl was going to name an earlier hour, then, catching sight of Rob’s steady eyes upon her, she hesitated an instant, and then said: “About ten o’clock, I think.”
“Mrs. Carleton and Mr. Fessenden went to their rooms at the same time?”