“Oh, you get hunches at this game when you’ve been at it long enough.”
“That must be nice. Did you get a hunch about Mr. Ives?”
“About Pat Ives? I haven’t heard him yet.”
“What did it mean, his not being at that poker game?”
“Well, it might have meant anything in the world—or nothing. The only thing that’s perfectly clear is that it meant that last night was undoubtedly one of wassail and carouse for Uncle Dudley Lambert.”
“Why?”
“My dear child, didn’t you see the look of unholy glee that flooded the old gentleman’s countenance when he realized that young Mr. Ives hadn’t a shadow of an alibi for that eventful evening?”
“Well, but why?”
“Because the only thing that Uncle Dudley would as soon do as save his angel goddaughter from the halter is to drape one around Pat Ives’s neck. He’s hated Pat ever since he dared to subject his precious Sue to a life of good healthy hardship in New York; he’s never forgiven him for estranging her from her father; and since he found out that he betrayed her with the Bellamy girl, he’s been simply imbecile with rage. And now, through some heaven-sent fluke, he’s enabled to put his life in jeopardy. He’s almost out of his head. He’d better go a bit warily, however. If I can read the human countenance—and it may interest you to know that I can read the human countenance—Mrs. Patrick Ives is not entirely in favour of sending her unworthy spouse to the gallows. She had a monitory look in her eye that bodes ill for Uncle Dudley if she ever realizes what he’s doing.”
The red-headed girl heaved an unhappy sigh. “Well, I don’t believe that anyone did it,” she remarked spaciously. “Not anyone here, I mean. Burglars, probably, or one of those funny organizations, or——”