“Why, when that gentleman is so greatly your senior?”
“Merely because Uncle was so fond of him. And, too, Uncle never seemed to realize that I was of a different generation from himself. He couldn’t understand,—he really couldn’t—why I wanted young company and gay parties. He didn’t, and he really assumed that I didn’t. I think he never realized how greatly he was depriving me when he forbade me society.”
“Did it really amount to that?”
“Practically. Or, if I succeeded in persuading him to let me have a house guest or a small party, he made things so unpleasant that I was glad when they were gone.”
“Unpleasant, how?”
“Oh, fussing around, as if his comfort were interfered with,—as if he were terribly incommoded by their presence, and by demanding my time and attention for himself, instead of allowing me to entertain my guests properly.”
“Doubtless so you wouldn’t do it again.”
“Yes, of course. But all that was uncomfortable for me,—almost unbearable,—yet one doesn’t kill one’s people for such things.”
To me this simple statement of Olive Raynor’s was more convincing than a storm of denial. She had stormed, with indignation, at the hint of suspicion, but her quiet, dignified refutation went far to assure me of her entire innocence.
“Of course, one doesn’t,” I agreed, “and now to find out who did do it. Have you any suspicion,—Miss Raynor, even the slightest?”