The girl was, without doubt, hysterical, and her account of the shooting was disjointed and incoherent.
Moreover, Mr. Pitt was of the supercilious type, the kind who never believes anything, and his manner, as he listened to Jenny’s story, was incredulous and almost scoffing.
So Jenny’s story, though to me illuminating, was, I felt sure, to Pitt, of little value.
“Oh,” Jenny exclaimed, “I was in my room, the first room, and I didn’t mean to listen,—I never do! and then, all of a sudden, I heard somebody threatening Mr. Gately! That made me listen,—I don’t care if it was wrong—and then, I heard somebody quarreling with Mr. Gately.”
“How do you know they were quarreling?” interposed Pitt’s cold voice.
“I couldn’t help knowing, sir. I heard Mr. Gately’s usually pleasant voice raised as if in anger, and I heard the visitor’s voice, high and angry too.”
“You didn’t know the visitor’s voice? you had never heard it before?” asked Pitt.
“No, sir; I’ve no idea who he could have been!” and the foolish little Jenny bridled and looked like an innocent ingénue.
I broke in.
“But didn’t you admit all visitors or callers to Mr. Gately?” I demanded.