“Then you know of some clue?”
“I may, or I may not. This is not the time to speak about such things.”
“My dear lady,” said the host with great dignity, “I am under the impression that you came here to receive my sympathy.”
“Then you were never more mistaken in your life,” retorted Miss Grison grimly. “I came to say what I shall say, when tea is at an end.”
“Nothing unpleasant, I trust?” asked Sorley distinctly uneasily.
“That is for you to judge,” she returned, and the entrance of Henny Trent with a tray put an end to this particular conversation.
While Henny, who was large and red-cheeked and black-eyed, and who really resembled the Dutch doll Miss Grison had compared her to, was arranging the tea-table, Alan stole furtive looks at Mr. Sorley. The old gentleman seemed to have suddenly aged, and a haggard look had crept over his deceptive face, while his eyes hinted uneasiness as he watched Miss Grison. It seemed to Fuller that Sorley for some reason feared his visitor, and the fact that she had so audaciously walked over the house appeared to indicate that she was quite sure he would not rebuke her for the liberty. And, remembering the man’s bluster, which contrasted so pointedly with his present suave talk, Alan felt confident that there was an understanding between them. He asked himself if such had to do with the murder, but replied mentally in the negative. If Sorley knew anything about the matter, Miss Grison would then and there have denounced him, since she appeared to hate him as much as he dreaded her. But beyond short answers and sinister glances, she gave no sign of her enmity, while Sorley masked his uneasiness under the guise of small talk. In spite of the almost immediate occurrence of the murder, and the fact that Miss Grison had come down for the funeral, Fuller noted that the tragedy was scarcely referred to—at all events during the earlier part of the conversation. Along with Marie, he remained silent, and allowed the other two to converse.
“Are you staying long down here, Miss Grison?” asked the host, handing a cup of tea to her and a plate of thin bread and butter.
“Why don’t you call me Louisa as you used to do?” she demanded. “We were great friends, you know, Marie, before you were born.” She turned to Miss Inderwick.
“Yes yes,” said Sorley, taking his cue. “You called me Randolph; but we are both too old now to use our Christian names.” He laughed artificially.