Then, too, he had avoided the task of breaking the news to old George. Difficult as it had been to play his rôle before the tearful servants, the cautious physician and the county officials, he shrank far more from the ordeal of facing his friend with the story he had fabricated. It would be easy, of course; almost too easy. It was a battle of wits, a fair fight with others, but with slow-witted, loyal old George . . . He had turned back to the library when a voice speaking his name aroused him swiftly from his reverie.
“Mr. Storm, I’d like to see you for a moment.” It was Daly. “Don’t be alarmed, please. Dr. Bellowes is quite satisfied that Mrs. Storm’s death was accidental, but the circumstances are so unusual that as a mere matter of form I want a statement from you to file in my report. Will you tell me, please, what occurred from the time of your arrival home last evening until you summoned Dr. Carr at seven o’clock this morning?”
Haltingly, as if still dazed with the shock, but with every nerve tinglingly on guard, Storm repeated his story exactly as he had told it to Dr. Carr, and Daly listened attentively, punctuating it with quick nods of satisfaction, as though he were mentally checking off each detail.
At its conclusion he made no comment, but instead asked a question which brought a start of renewed apprehension to the other man.
“Do you know, Mr. Storm, if your wife had any enemies? Is there anyone who will profit by her death or who had any reason for wishing her out of the way?”
“Good heavens, no!” Storm could feel the blood ebbing from his face, and his voice had grown suddenly husky. “You don’t mean——?”
“I don’t mean anything,” Mr. Daly retorted calmly. “I told you this was a mere matter of form, Mr. Storm. Do you know of any enmity which your wife might have incurred?”
“None. Everyone who knew her loved her; she hadn’t an enemy in the world,” Storm stammered. “No one could profit by her death, and as to—to wishing her out of the way——”
“That is all right, sir. I don’t want to distress you, but these facts must be clearly established.” Mr. Daly paused. “How long have you been married, and what was Mrs. Storm’s maiden name?”
“Leila Talmage. We were married ten years ago.” Storm controlled his wildly leaping pulses and forced himself to reply calmly, weariedly, as though the subject caused him infinite pain. “She was an orphan, the ward of a friend of our family, and has no living relatives of whom I ever heard.”