He was young, and enthusiastic in his chosen career. Moreover, he was canny and clever. He had further chat with Mrs. Black, and he managed to get a few words with the servants. And somehow, by hook or crook, he secured photographs of both women, and of the house, as well as of the victim of the tragedy himself.
Aside from reportorial talent, Pinckney had a taste for detective work. He was, or fancied himself, the stuff of which story-book detectives are made, and he was more than glad to have the press assignment of this case, which might give him wide range for his powers of deduction.
When Judge Hoyt arrived, he at once sought out Avice, and his fine, impassive face grew infinitely gentle as he greeted the sad-eyed girl.
In her black gown, she looked older, and her pale cheeks and drawn countenance told of a sleepless night.
“How are you dear?” asked Hoyt, taking her hands in his. “I’ve been so anxious about you.”
“I’m all right,” and Avice tried to smile bravely. “But I’m glad you’ve come. I feel so alone and responsible—Mr. Pinckney says I have a splendid lawyer—but I don’t see anything for a lawyer to do.”
“There may be. I believe the police have made quite a few discoveries, though I know nothing definite. Of course, all my legal powers are at your disposal, but I too, doubt if the criminal is ever apprehended.”
“Oh, don’t say that! We must find him! You will, won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best Avice. But I am a lawyer, not a detective, you know.”
“But you’re a judge, and you have been district attorney, and you’re the greatest criminal lawyer in the state!”