“Yes,” she said quietly. “That is my own syringe.”
“I found it just now in a clump of bushes. Do you know how it got there?”
“No,” said Maida flatly.
“Why, then,” said O’Leary very softly, “did you replace it with Miss Keate’s needle?”
Maida turned toward me at that, her eyes again unfathomable. But before she could reply Jim Gainsay, whose approach we had not noted, swept impetuously between us.
“Hello, Miss Keate—O’Leary. Here you are, Miss Day.” And without any ado about it, he simply took Maida’s arm and hustled her away from us and along the narrow path toward the bridge before we had time to blink.
It was rather astonishing, and O’Leary and I stood there in silence for a moment until the fog hid the gleam of scarlet from Maida’s cape.
“Well,” remarked O’Leary then, turning to me; I saw that his eyes were twinkling with a sort of unwilling admiration that was half amusement. “Well—somewhat piratical is Mr. Gainsay. I suppose he brazenly listened to what we said. It is evident that he did not want Miss Day to answer my last question—also, that he is more or less in her confidence and that he was meeting her by appointment. Or”—he paused for a moment—“or it might be that he has reasons of his own for not wishing it to be known just why Miss Day substituted your needle for her own. At least,” he concluded briskly, “he knows more than an innocent man should know.”
And with that I had to be content, for he would not say another word and we walked silently along the dusky path until we came to the colonial porch of the south wing.
“I’ll go on around to the main entrance,” said O’Leary, then. “I want to use the telephone in the general office. I’ll be around to your wing later; there is something about Room 18 that I must know.” He took off his cap as he walked away from me—a nice gesture that was somewhat marred in effect by his very dirty hands.