He was leaning far toward her once more, a child-like impatience stamped on his face. As she proceeded, his admiration grew.
For this, there was ample ground. The newspaper paragraph Hastings had read that morning commenting on her mastery of all the details of the crime had scarcely done her justice. Before she concluded, Crown had heard from her lips little incidents that had gone over his head. She put new and accurate meaning into facts time and time again, speaking with the particularity and vividness of an eye-witness.
"Now," she said, having reconstructed the crime and described the subsequent behaviour of the tragedy's principal actors; "now who's guilty?"
"Exactly," echoed Crown, with a click in his throat. "Who's guilty? What's your theory?"
She was silent, eyes downcast, her hands smoothing the black, much-worn skirt over her lean knees. Recital of the gruesome story, the death of her only child, had left her unmoved, had not quickened her breathing.
"In telling you that," she resumed, her restless eyes striking his at rapid intervals, "I think I'll put you in a position to get the right man—if you'll act."
"Oh, I'll act!" he declared, largely. "Don't bother your head about that!"
"Of course, it's only a theory——"
"Yes; I know! And I'll keep it to myself."