Dorothy Burt turned very pale. She shot a quick glance at Schuyler Carleton and another at Fessenden, and then said in a low tone: “They had gone upstairs a short time before.”
“And you remained downstairs for a time with Mr. Carleton?”
“Yes.” The answer, merely a whisper, seemed forced upon her lips.
“Where were you?”
Again the hesitation. Again the swift glances at Carleton and Rob, and then the low answer:
“In the rose-garden.”
Fessenden understood. The girl had no desire to tell these things, but she knew that he knew the truth, and so she was too clever to lie uselessly.
“How long were you two in the rose-garden, Miss Burt?”
Another pause. Somehow, Fessenden seemed to see the workings of the girl’s mind. If she designated a long time it would seem important. If too short a time, Rob would know of her inaccuracy. And if she said she didn’t know, it would lend a meaning to the rose-garden interview which it were better to avoid.
“Perhaps a half-hour,” she said, at last, and, though outwardly calm, her quickly-drawn breath and shining eyes betokened a suppressed excitement of some sort.