“Tell me more of the—the tragedy, then. Was the weapon found?”
“No, not that I know of,” and Avice looked surprised. “I never thought of it.”
“No, it was not,” affirmed Mrs. Black. “The police were unable to find any weapon.”
“Too bad,” frowned Pinckney; “the dear public loses a thrill.”
“The public? Do they care?” and Avice started.
“Rather! New Yorkers love a murder mystery if there are gruesome elements here and there.”
“All I want is justice,” and Avice’s big, brown eyes turned full on Pinckney’s face. “You know about such things. Do you suppose we can trace the murderer with so little to go on?”
“Can’t tell yet. May be lots of evidence forthcoming at the inquest.”
At this point Mrs. Black was called from the room by a servant, and Pinckney said quickly, “Who is she? and why don’t you like her?”
For some reason, Avice did not resent the man’s directness, and answered, slowly. “She is housekeeper, and was engaged to my uncle. I don’t dislike her,—not altogether.”