“You are going on the supposition that Brant is guilty,” he said quickly. “I don’t believe he is.”
“You don’t?” The judge’s tone evinced more deprecation than he could honestly lay claim to. “But, my dear boy, have you considered the alternative?”
“No.” Antrim admitted it frankly. “I haven’t looked at it in that light at all. But I know Brant, and I think I know him pretty well. I don’t believe he is any more capable of killing a man in cold blood than I am.”
“I know; but that is only inference. You forget the evidence—” The judge was going on to summarize the evidence, but the coming of the servant interrupted him. “Yes, I rang,” he said to the housemaid. “Ask Mrs. Hobart if she will be good enough to come to the library.”
Kate complied at once, and the judge introduced Antrim. “Have this chair, Mrs. Hobart,” he said. “We were discussing the mur—the tragedy of last night. Mr. Antrim is a friend of Brant’s, and I understood you to say that your husband knows him well. Can you tell us anything of his history?”
Kate shook her head slowly, and, being inclined at times to be wary out of all proportion to her sex and age, replied guardedly: “Nothing more than that he and Ned were college classmates.”
“Have you written to your husband yet?”
“No; I thought he would get the papers before he would my letter.”
“So he will; but I think it will be well to ask him to come down. You might write to-night, and Mr. Antrim will mail your letter.”
“I’ll do better than that—I’ll wire,” said Kate. “May I write at your table?”