But Avice had flung herself on a couch, her face buried in the pillows, and was sobbing her heart out.
“Let her cry,” said Mrs. Black, softly, as she laid her long white hand gently upon the bowed head; “it will do her good. Tell me all, Judge Hoyt. I am the one in charge now.”
The woman’s handsome face showed dignity and authority rather than grief, but Leslie Hoyt was merely the dead man’s lawyer, and had no right to intrude personal comment or sympathy. He had long been a close friend of Rowland Trowbridge and his niece, but with the housekeeper his acquaintance was but formal.
“I know very little, Mrs. Black,” he said, his eyes wandering to the convulsed figure on the couch. “The inspector merely told me that Mr. Trowbridge has been killed and that some one must go to the police station to represent the family. As his lawyer, it is appropriate that I should go, and, indeed, it seems to me there is no one else who could—” his voice broke as he looked again at Avice, now sitting up and staring, wide-eyed at him.
“Yes, do go, Judge Hoyt,” she cried; “you are the one—who else could? Not I, surely,—you don’t want me to go, do you?”
“No, Avice, no, dear,” said Mrs. Black, soothingly. “Nobody thought of your going. Judge Hoyt has kindly consented——”
“I will stop for Doctor Fulton, I think, and ask him to go with me,” and Leslie Hoyt took up his hat. “You had better go to your room, Avice. It may be a long time before my return.”
“I will look after her,” and Mrs. Black nodded her head. “I will attend to everything.”
She accompanied Hoyt to the door, saying in low tones, “When you come back, will you bring the the—will you bring Mr. Trowbridge with you?”
“I can’t be sure. There are so many formalities to be looked after. Try to keep Avice as quiet as possible. It will be a trying scene at best, when we return.”