"Spencer evidently really cared for Kathleen," went on Whitney, paying no attention to his ejaculation. "A queer fellow, Spencer; I did not give him credit for possessing sincere feeling, except where he himself was concerned."
"Was Spencer wealthy?" The question shot from Miller against his will.
"Report says so; I never inquired, myself." Whitney puffed a cloud of smoke, and as it cleared away, turned impulsively to Miller. "I'm damned if I like Foster's manner to me today!" he burst out.
"Why, what happened?" Miller bent eagerly forward.
"I only asked him to postpone probating Spencer's will," began Whitney, laying down his cigar.
Miller's eyes opened. "Did he agree to it?"
"No—refused curtly." Whitney's eyes flashed. "And the manner of his refusal—rankles," he confessed.
"Your request was somewhat singular," commented Miller slowly.
"Nothing singular about it," retorted Whitney. "I was thinking of Kathleen when I made the request. Man, do you not see," and the haggard lines in his face deepened, "the instant that will is offered for probate its contents become public. And its publication now will but strengthen the suspicion already centered about Kathleen, by supplying a possible motive for Spencer's murder."
"Suspicion cannot injure the innocent," protested Miller.