Yet even as he spoke, the man remembered the crumpled paper he had taken from the waste basket, and he felt it in his pocket, though he made no sign.
“Oh, people, is my aunt here?”
It was Pinky Payne, who, all excitement, came running in.
“I’ve just heard, and I want to see Aunt Emily.”
“Here I am, dear. Come here, my boy,” and she drew him down beside her on the sofa.
“What do they say, Pinky? What’s the talk in town?” Lockwood asked.
“Oh, the place is in a turmoil. There are the wildest reports. Some say it’s a—a—that he killed himself, you know, and some say—he didn’t. Which was it?”
The boy’s lip quivered as he looked about at the silent people.
“Tell him, Gordon,” begged Mrs. Bates, and Lockwood told the principal details of the mystery.
“Never a suicide! never!” Pinckney Payne declared. “I know Doc Waring too well for that. Suicide means a coward—and he was never that! No, Aunt Emily, it was murder. Oh, how terrible,” and the boy almost lost control of himself. “You were at the bottom of it, Auntie. I’m sure it was either one of those men you refused when you took up with Doc Waring.”