For a moment Gordon Lockwood’s calm almost deserted him. It was but a fleeting instant, yet Cray’s sharp eyes caught the look of utter dismay that crossed the impassive face of the secretary. Immediately the usual hauteur returned and the grave eyes met Cray’s without a tremor.
“How do you know?” Cray was all alertness.
“I sat behind her at the funeral. She took off her coat and I couldn’t help noticing a certain arrangement of buttons. It struck me, because I noticed the marks on the chair back, and they were just the same design.”
“Absurd,” Lockwood said, quietly, but with a deep scorn in his tone. “As if you could identify the trimming on a lady’s gown!”
“But I did,” Helen persisted, spurred by Lockwood’s manner. “I noticed it on the chair, a clear pattern of the trimming of the collar, and two rows down the back. And then I saw Mr. Lockwood rub it off of the chairback with utmost care. And today, when I saw Miss Austin’s dress, I recognized it at once. She was here that night—Mr. Lockwood knew it—and he erased the marks—”
“Helen, don’t be too ridiculous!” Lockwood spoke now in a soft drawl, that made Helen flush with anger.
“I’m not ridiculous! Am I, Mr. Cray? It’s evidence, isn’t it? It proves that girl was here—doesn’t it? And Gordon did rub it off—Ito saw him too, and I saw him. He was rubbing the chair when I came to call him to breakfast—he can’t deny it!”
“I do deny it,” Lockwood said, quietly. “Miss Peyton is excited and doesn’t remember accurately.”
“Nothing of the sort!” blazed Helen. “It’s all true. Gordon won’t admit it because—”
“Helen, hush!” Gordon’s look stopped her at once. “Don’t say things you’ll regret.”