The prosecuting attorney was hard at work preparing the case. As is often the condition in a great criminal affair, there were antagonistic elements in the matters of detection and prosecution. The district attorney did not always agree with the police, nor they with the press and general public.
The personal friends and members of the family, too, had their own ideas, and each was equally anxious to prove evidence or establish a case.
The police had done well, but their work had to be supplemented by Whiting and his own detectives, and evidence had to be sifted and tabulated, statements put in writing and sworn to, and much detail work looked after.
Avice chafed at the delay, but Judge Hoyt assured her it was necessary, and asserted that he, too, had much to do to prepare his case for the defence.
So the days dragged by, and one afternoon, when a stranger was announced, Avice said she would see her, in sheer hope of diversion. And a diversion it proved.
The visitor was a middle-aged woman of the poorer class, but of decent appearance and address.
But she had a mysterious air, and spoke only in whispers. Her large dark eyes were deep-set, and glittered as with an uncanny light. Her thin lips drew themselves in, as if with a determination to say no more than was needful to make known her meaning. Her pale face showed two red spots on the high cheek bones, and two deep lines between her eyes bespoke earnest intentness of purpose.
“I am Miss Barham,” she said, by way of introduction, and paused as if for encouragement to proceed.
“Yes,” said Avice, kindly. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing, Miss Trowbridge. I am here to do something for you.” Her voice was so piercing, though not loud and her eyes glittered so strangely, Avice drew back a little, in fear.