"Oh, Henry!" exclaimed Kathleen contemptuously. "I wouldn't put any faith in what he says; he is forever making trouble in the kitchen. He is …"
The violent ringing of the telephone bell interrupted her.
"I have finished my breakfast, I'll go," volunteered Mrs. Whitney, and she hastened into the pantry where a branch telephone had been installed for the use of the servants. Before the swing door closed tightly, they heard her say: "Oh, Kiametia …"
"What is the reason the servants are so anxious to decamp?" asked
Whitney, handing Kathleen the dish of fruit, which she declined.
"You forget this house has become a chamber of horrors." Kathleen's voice shook, and she paused to take a hasty swallow of hot coffee. "Possibly the presence of the detectives makes them nervous."
"Well, a sudden leave-taking from here will probably center the detectives' attention upon them more than if they stayed and did their work."
"That is highly probable. Tell me, Dad"—Kathleen regarded Whitney intently—"how is it that I am not in jail? Did not the coroner's jury convict me?"
"Their verdict read that you were responsible for Spencer's death, and as such you are under suspicion and will be held for the Grand Jury."
"Oh!" Kathleen shuddered slightly.
"I had no difficulty arranging bail," continued Whitney. "The officials themselves realize—must realize," he interjected, with bitter force—"there is little real evidence against you. The coroner's jury—the d——fools"—the words escaped between his clenched teeth—"to place faith in circumstantial evidence!" Whitney's clenched fist descended on the table with a force that made the goblets ring. "My dear, why, why did you try to whitewash Julie?"