How could I have slept? Cecil was returning. Apparently no one noticed—a minor accomplishment of necromancy—I just toss these things off, you know. Some mumbling and talking over yonder, as she felt the return of Cecil's warmth, and took hold of his hand, though he was really nothing like her father. Yes, Rankin, identifying the silly things. Poor Jim, spelled "relinquish" r-e-l-i-n-q-u-e-s-h. E for effort. "Cecil, what did you say to the rising young lawyer that turned him pink?"
He looked at her doubtfully, not smiling. "I said the prosecution must be running out of keyholes."
"Maybe you touched a childhood trauma."
"His childhood be damned," the Old Man grumbled. "He's still a snotnose pulling the wings off flies, as a profession."
"I decline to be compared to a house-fly."
"Shut up, dear. I've got to listen again."
"Sergeant, after Miss Blake's admission that James Doherty had been her lover, was she questioned any further, there at her apartment?"
"No, sir. Chief Gage informed her that she would be detained for questioning. She made no protest. Accompanied by yourself, Mr. Hunter, I took her in a police car direct to Mr. Lamson's office, in this building."
"Was she questioned there, in your presence?"
"Yes, sir, mainly by Mr. Lamson. My recollection is that the others present were yourself, Chief Gage, Miss Wallingford—that's Mr. Lamson's secretary—who made a stenographic record of the interrogation, and Sergeant Shields of the State Police, who was present only a part of the time, a few minutes."