Miss Gerald’s shadow fell abruptly at Bob’s feet. He saw it before he saw her—a radiant, accusing patrician presence. The girl carried a golf stick, but there was no caddy in sight.
“Mr. Bennett,” said Miss Gerald, with customary directness, “do you know who poisoned my aunt’s dog?”
Bob scrambled to his feet awkwardly. Her loveliness alone was enough to embarrass him. “No,” he said.
“He was poisoned that night you left,” she said, and went on studying him.
Bob pondered heavily. If the dog had been killed with a golf stick for example, he might have been to blame. “You are sure he was poisoned?” he asked with an effort.
“Certainly.” In surprise.
“Well, I didn’t do it,” said Bob.
“Were you in any way responsible for it?” She stood like an angel of the flaming sword in the doorway, where the sunlight framed her figure. She rather intoxicated poor Bob.
“Not to my knowledge,” he said. Of course the commodore might have poisoned the dog, but it was unlikely. Probably that inside-operator, or his outside pal had “done the deed.” A dog would be in their way.
Miss Gerald considered. “There is another question I should like to ask you, Mr. Bennett,” she said presently.