Mr. Benson announced that he would convene a jury and hold an inquest that same afternoon, and then he would expect all those now present to return as witnesses.
Without waiting to learn what the others did, Fessenden turned to Kitty French, and asked her to go with him for a stroll.
“You need fresh air,” he said, as they stepped from the veranda; “but, also, I need you to talk to. I can formulate my ideas better if I express them aloud, and you are such a clear-headed and sympathetic listener that it helps a lot.”
Kitty smiled with pleasure at the compliment, then her pretty face became grave again as she remembered what must be the subject of their conversation.
“Before I talk to the lawyers or detectives who will doubtless soon infest the house, I want to straighten out my own ideas.”
“I don’t see how you can have any,” said Kitty; “I mean, of course, any definite ideas about who committed the murder.”
“I haven’t really definite ones, but I want you to help me get some.”
“Well,” said Kitty, looking provokingly lovely in her serious endeavor to be helpful, “let’s sit down here and talk it over.”
“Here” was a sort of a rustic arbor, which was a delightful place for a tête-à-tête, but not at all conducive to deep thought or profound conversation.
“Go on,” said Kitty, pursing her red lips and puckering her white brow in her determination to supply the help that was required of her.