“What is it you desire to know concerning my late wife’s death?” he asked.
“Although Mrs. Garlett’s death was exceedingly sudden, there does not seem to have been any question of an inquest,” observed the man Garlett now knew to represent all the formidable and mysterious powers of the C.I.D.
“There was not the slightest necessity for an inquest,” was the quiet answer. “Dr. Maclean, who had been my wife’s medical attendant for many years, saw her the day before she died.”
Mr. Kentworthy took a thick, small, notebook out of his coat pocket, and opening it, began reading it to himself.
“I am aware of that fact,” he said, without looking up, “and of course my next step will be to call on Dr. Maclean. But before doing that I thought it only fair to come and tell you of my inquiries, Mr. Garlett.” He looked up. “Have you any objection to giving me an account of your wife’s death—as far as you can remember the circumstances? Let me see—it’s only seven months ago, isn’t it?”
Again Harry Garlett made a mighty effort to pull himself together. He had all your honest man’s instinctive, absolute trust in justice. No one believed more firmly than himself that “truth will out, even in an affidavit,” but even so, though he was not exactly an imaginative man, he did feel as if the gods, envious of the wonderful happiness with which his cup had been filled up to brimming over till a few moments ago, had devised this cruel, devilish trick....
“I am quite willing to tell you everything you wish to know,” he said frankly. “But there is very little to tell, Mr. Kentworthy.”
“It is a fact, is it not, that your wife was a lady of considerable means, and that she gave over to you the greater part of her fortune quite early in your married life?”
Garlett flushed. “That is so. But I beg you to believe that that was by no wish of mine. In fact, as I can prove to you, I remade my will at once, leaving the money back to her in case I predeceased her.”
James Kentworthy smiled. In spite of himself he was beginning to like Harry Garlett, and even to feel inclined to believe, to hope, he had been sent to this sleepy, old-world country town on a wild-goose chase.