“Why did that poor dead man spare my life when he called me up the first time? He could have killed me then.”
“I explained that. It wasn’t his vendetta.”
“Vendetta?”
“That is what this case is. An almost successful attempt to wipe out, or I should say obliterate, the Stockbridge Family—root and branch. Morphy had nursed the thing for over a year. He had soured up there in prison. His mind became abnormal. He conceived an abnormal revenge. Also a personal one. He had every reason to believe that he would never be discovered.”
“Then, Mr. Drew, he would have called me up on the phone later and done what he did—to father? He would have told me who he was over the telephone, and—and––”
“Yes, Miss Stockbridge. Yes, be calm, though. He is beyond the pale now. You will never hear from him again. Be assured of that!”
Drew leaned in his chair and glanced at Delaney. The big operative fidgeted in his seat, squirmed, reached for the tea-pot, then drew back his hand and started drumming the table with his fingers.
Nichols disengaged his arm from behind Loris and squared his shoulders. He moved forward. “I’m going to ask a question for Miss Stockbridge,” he said. “Did you ever suspect her?”
“Never!” declared Drew.
“Or me?”