“But I can’t go on, if you look like that! All logic and deduction fly out of my head, and I can think only of poetry and romance. And it won’t do! At least, not now. Can’t you try to give a more successful imitation of a coroner’s jury?”
Kitty tried to look stupid and wise, both at once, and only succeeded in looking bewitching.
“It’s no use,” said Fessenden; “I can’t sit facing you, as I would the real thing in the way of juries. So I’ll sit beside you, and look at the side of that distant barn, while we talk.”
So he turned partly round, and, fixing his gaze on the stolid red barn, said abruptly:
“Who wrote that paper?”
“I don’t know,” said Kitty, feeling that she couldn’t help much here.
“Somehow, I can’t seem to believe that Dupuy girl wrote it. She sounded to me like a lady reciting a fabrication.”
“I thought that, too,” said Kitty. “I never liked Cicely, because I never trusted her. But Maddy was very fond of her, and she wouldn’t have been, unless she had found Cicely trustworthy.”
“Come to luncheon, you two,” said Tom Willard, as he approached the arbor.
“Oh, Mr. Willard,” said Kitty, “who do you think wrote that paper?”