He thought her even more beautiful thus, than when she had first arrived, smiling.
“The Medical Examiner is not quite sure, Miss Lindsay. It may be that he took his own life—or it may be——”
“That he was—murdered,” she said, her gaze never wavering from Prescott’s face.
It was a bit disconcerting, and the detective oddly felt himself at a disadvantage. Yet he went on, inexorably.
“Yes; either deduction is possible.”
“How—how was he killed?”
At last her calm gave way a little. The tremor of her voice as she asked this question proved her not so self-controlled as she had seemed.
“He was shot.” Prescott watched both brother and sister as he spoke. But Louis still kept his face hidden in his hands, and Phyllis was once more perfectly calm.
“What with?” she went on.
“His own revolver. It was found close beside the body, and so as I said, it might have been——”