“But what good would it do?” She pressed him, her utilitarian little mind anxious for results.
“I’d rather like to know why Carpenter shot himself. So would other people. If this woman is a menace she should be exposed.”
“She should indeed. An interloper, making trouble, trying to run politics—”
He surveyed her amusedly, familiar with outbreaks of spite, waiting for his point to win itself.
“You knew her well.”
“I worked with her closely. A brilliant person—clever, modern. Modern in the way that these Eastern young women are modern. I did not approve of many things she did. I did not approve of some of the things she said. Then there was an incident which convinced me.”
She went on, a little deft prodding keeping her in motion, telling the story of having seen Walter Carpenter come to Margaret’s room and of having seen the letter from Gregory with its protestation that he must see her, that he wanted “to unloose her emotions—not fetter her in marriage.” How those words had imprinted themselves on Mrs. Thorstad’s mind! There was great satisfaction in Robinson’s face.
“And this Gregory?”
She had thought that out too.
“Why it must have been that Gregory Macmillan. He came here later and she talked of knowing him. I heard Mrs. Flandon speak of it.”