“Yes,” said Avice, “I am Miss Trowbridge and this is Mrs. Black.”
“What can we tell you?” said Mrs. Black, acknowledging the visitor’s bow, and quickly taking the initiative. “There is so little to tell——”
“Ah, yes,” and the interrupting Pinckney deliberately turned to Avice. “But you will tell me all you know, won’t you? It’s so annoying to the family to have details made up—and—we must get the news somehow.”
His youthful, almost boyish air pleased Avice, who had thought reporters a crude, rather slangy lot, and she responded at once.
“Indeed I will Mr. Pinckney. It’s horrid to have things told wrongly, especially a thing like this.” Her eyes filled, and the reporter looked down at his still empty notebook.
“But, don’t you see, Miss Trowbridge,” he said, gently “if you tell me the details it might help in unearthing the truth,—for you don’t know who did it, do you?”
“No, we don’t” broke in Eleanor Black; “you’d better not try to talk Avice, dear, you are so unstrung. Let me answer Mr. Pinckney’s questions.”
“I’m not unstrung, Eleanor, at least not so much so that I can’t talk. Mr. Pinckney, if you can be of assistance in any way of solving the mystery of my uncle’s death, I shall be very grateful. The inquest will be held this morning, and I suppose,—I hope that will throw some light on it all. But just now I know of no way to look.”
“Oh of course, it was a highway robber,” said Mrs. Black. “There can be no doubt of it.”
“But is there any proof of it?” and the reporter looked at her inquiringly. “No doubt is not sufficient, proof positive is what we want.”