“In a general way, yes. He too, is so much older than I am that I have never given him a thought save as a friend of my uncle’s. I don’t know Mr. Ames very well, but I’ve certainly no unfriendly feelings toward him.”
I wondered at myself. Why did I so admire this girl, so respect her, and yet have an undercurrent of fear for her? She was utterly frank, perfectly straightforward, to all appearances, yet—probably influenced by what I knew—I couldn’t believe in her.
She was so self-possessed, so unafraid in her attitude and expression of face, that I had no real reason to doubt her good faith.
But I did, and I determined to watch Alma Remsen carefully and to the exclusion of everybody else connected with the mystery.
Moreover, I determined to keep my knowledge to myself. I wasn’t sure whether I should tell Moore eventually or not, but at any rate, I wasn’t ready to tell him yet.
After a few questions, which seemed to me of no real importance, Alma was excused and Mrs. Dallas was summoned.
What a different type of woman!
She was, as I learned later, about thirty, but her hair had turned prematurely gray, almost white. She wore it short, a soft, curly bob, that framed her young-looking face with a sort of halo.
Her eyes were gray, too, with dark lashes, and her complexion was perfect. That lovely creamy flesh, with a soft sheen on it that needed, I felt sure, no aid of cosmetics.
Her mouth was a Cupid’s bow, and her smile was that of a siren.