“Well,” she said, as she came back, and March responded, “not well at all. About as bad as it can be.”
“You believe that balderdash, then?” I asked, angrily, and Keeley said, “Yes, Gray, and so do you. I think, March, we must revert to the mentally deficient theory.”
“I think so, too,” March said, shaking his head. “I wish Doctor Rogers was at home.”
CHAPTER XVI
WHISTLING REEDS
March called in at Variable Winds on his way to the Tracy funeral. We were all ready to go, for though none of us wanted to, it was a matter of convention and the whole village would have commented unkindly had we stayed away.
I, especially, dreaded it, for I dislike funerals, and I hated the thought of the entire community sitting up there, casting glances at Alma and making whispered remarks about her.
But I had to go, so I made the best of it, and, garbed in appropriate black, I sat with the others awaiting the time to start.
March came in, looking harassed and worn.
“It’s all too dreadful,” he said, sinking into a chair. “Everything seems to point to Alma Remsen, yet I am not convinced of her guilt.”
I started to speak, but thought better of it. Since March held that opinion nothing I could say would help any. I’d better keep still.