"I'm glad it happened at just this time," he said, "when everybody's out of the building." He struck the desk with his fist. "By God!" he ground out through gritted teeth. "How I hate these wild, unbridled women!"
"Yes," agreed Hastings, taking the chair Wilton rolled forward for him. "She worries me. Wonder if she's going to Sloanehurst."
"That would be the logical sequel to this visit," Wilton said. "But pardon my show of temper. You came to see me?"
"Yes; and, like her, for information. But," the detective said, smiling, "not for rough-house purposes."
The judge had not entirely regained his equanimity; his face still wore a heightened colour; his whole bearing was that of a man mentally reviewing the results of an unpleasant incident. Instead of replying promptly to Hastings, he sat looking out of the window, obviously troubled.
"Her game is blackmail," he declared at last.
"On whom?" the detective queried.
"Arthur Sloane, of course. She calculates that he'll play to have her cease annoying his daughter's fiancé. And she'll impress Arthur, if Jarvis ever lets her get to him. Somehow, she strangely compels credence."
"Not for me," Hastings objected, and did not point out that Wilton's words might be taken as an admission of Webster's guilt.