“Oh, all right. Don’t take my question too seriously.” Hoyt spoke kindly, for the butler showed considerable agitation. He started to say something, paused, stammered, and finally burst out with, “I didn’t kill him, Sir!”
“Good Lord, Stryker, nobody thought you did! But don’t show such a scared face to the coroner when he questions you, or he may think all sorts of things.”
“What c—could he think?”
“Nothing that I know of. By the way, Stryker, now that Mr. Trowbridge is gone, you can take out that insurance policy, can’t you?”
“Oh, Mr. Hoyt, don’t speak of such things now!” and the old butler fairly wrung his hands.
“All right, I won’t. But when you want to talk it over, come to me. Is that your Pinckney, Avice, talking to Mrs. Black?”
“Yes; why, he’s interviewing her! See his notebook. She is telling him lots!”
“He’s getting what they call a ‘sob story.’ She’s working on his sympathies by pathetic tales of her loss. How does she treat you? All right?”
“Yes, except that she wants to be head of the house, and——”
“That will settle itself. You won’t stay here, dear, you will come to me. We will——”