She doubted his word and, walking to the closet, made a selection from the more sober wear.
"Take these," she ordered.
He thanked her, gathered the clothing together, and left the room; and she heard the hall door close after him while she lingered a moment to replace the things his rummaging had disturbed. Coming out herself, the first object to meet her eye was a telltale bit of cloth protruding from the umbrella-rack, into which, she promptly discovered, the supposed undertaker's assistant had stuffed every article she had given him. The sight unnerved her, and she sought Amy in the parlor and told her what she had seen.
"Don't let people in here," she warned. "The man was, of course, a reporter. No experienced detective would have left the clothes behind."
Amy plucked at her throat as if stifled.
"What did he w-want?" she chattered. "What did he want?"
"Scandal, probably."
"You think so?" whispered the girl, ghastly white. "You think so? You don't suppose he came because—because he suspects—"
"Suspects whom?"
"Me!" she wailed, her cry trembling to a shriek. "Me! Me! Me! I did it, Jean. I shot him. I killed Fred. I'm the one. I—"