“Did she have any money of her own?” the other pursued.
“Very little. Ten or twelve thousand, I believe.” Storm moistened his lips and drew himself up slightly. “My attorney, Wendle Foulkes, took charge of it for her at her request, but I have never made any inquiries concerning her expenditure of it. It was hers, to do with as she pleased.”
“Then you don’t know the value of her estate now?”
“No.”
“Nor whether she left a will?”
“I do not, Mr. Daly. My attorney can answer all such questions far better than I.” Storm drew his hand once more across his eyes. Why did the fellow stare so infernally at him? “I must refer you to him. He will have to be notified, of course; I hadn’t thought of that. My mind—I cannot collect myself! It is horrible that there should be even a thought of foul play in connection with my poor wife; it is almost a profanation! Her life was an open book, she was the soul of honor and goodness and charity——”
His voice broke realistically, and his inquisitor rose.
“I don’t doubt you, but you will understand that we have to take every possibility into consideration in a case of this sort. The Chief will want to see you when he’s through in there, but won’t detain you long.”
His searching gaze lowered at last, and he turned and left the room.
Storm listened to his retreating footsteps in a maze of conflicting emotion. Had that inquisition been merely the formality that the young official claimed, or had they stumbled on the truth? If Daly’s efforts had been directed toward establishing a possible motive, Storm congratulated himself that he had more than held his ground. He had succeeded in placing on record a statement of absolute faith and trust in his wife, and surely his bearing as a grief-stricken husband had been seemingly sincere beyond question! If they suspected, though; if they unearthed that damnable affair of hers with Brewster, discovered that he had been in that house on the previous night and could prove that Storm himself returned before the other’s departure . . . .