“That is part of her volatile nature. She never looks back. To her, only the future counts. I don’t believe she does care who the murderer is. Who do you think, Avice?”
“I can’t form any idea, Kane. I suppose it must have been some stranger, a robber or Black-Hander. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem altogether likely,—Avice, is Fleming Stone coming to see me?”
“Yes, don’t you want him to?”
“Indeed I do. I’ve formed some theories myself, during the long lonely hours I spend here, and I’d like to talk them over with Stone. Avice, what about Stryker? I mean about his bolting, when he feared he would be suspected.”
“He says that was sheer fright. He knew he was innocent, but he couldn’t prove an alibi, so he ran away. He’s very nervous and frightened of late, anyway. And if Judge Hoyt makes him swear he sent that telephone message, I just know he’ll break down and they’ll think he’s the murderer, sure.”
“Perhaps he is. There’s the handkerchief, you know. And—oh, don’t bother your poor little tired brain over it, darling! Leave it to the detectives. Duane doesn’t amount to much, does he?”
“No. But Mr. Stone will, I’m sure of that.”
“And Harry Pinckney, what’s he doing?”
Avice looked embarrassed. “I had to snub him, Kane. He—he was—”