The day was warm; all the men were in their shirt sleeves. The view from the living-room window was excellent. Blair Windsor’s summer home was indeed an attractive haven, and Harry could hardly believe that anything was amiss.
The only cloud in the conversation came late in the afternoon. Blair Windsor’s genial face became suddenly sober, when he brought up the subject. His gray eyes were solemn as he spoke.
“Boys,” he said, “I can’t understand it about old Henry. I don’t believe that he could have killed Frank Jarnow; but it does look bad.
“I talked with Henry. He was stewed when he went to see Frank. That may account for it. Henry’s great fault is liquor; yet I can’t see how it could have made a killer out of him.”
“Frank seemed O.K. when he was here,” observed Perry Quinn. “But I can’t understand why he left so suddenly. He was gone before we knew it.”
“He was probably worried about his job,” explained Blair Windsor. “He was rather dubious about staying two weeks. I understand that he called Henry by phone. They were old friends, you know; in fact, I only knew Frank through Henry.”
“Blair has had an unfortunate experience,” confided Buckman, to Vincent. The two were sitting together in a corner of the room.
“Frank Jarnow, who was staying here, went home several days ago. He lived in Philadelphia, and knew Blair’s brother, Henry.
“They evidently had a quarrel; Jarnow was shot, and killed. Blair had to go to Philadelphia for a few days to see if he could help straighten matters.”
“Well, gentlemen,” came Blair Windsor’s voice, in a cheerful tone, “there’s no use worrying about it. I talked with Henry’s lawyer. He’s a good man, and hopes to clear Henry.”