“I have no idea,” she replied. “I am as ignorant on the subject as you are.”
Mitchell eyed her intently. Was it candor which prompted the direct denial or duplicity? She appeared unconscious of his steady gaze, her attention apparently centered on the flickering fire, and her hands, clasped together, rested idly in her lap. Mitchell’s profession had made him a close student of human nature and as he studied her face, partly turned from him, he concluded that Kitty did not lack strength of character and will power, whatever her faults might be.
Was her air of relaxation, of almost dumb inertia, a cloak to hide high-strung, quivering nerves? If he could but shake her composure, he might gain some key to the mystery of her aunt’s murder. Mitchell cleared his throat as he unobtrusively hitched his chair around to obtain a more favorable angle from which to gauge her expression.
“Had your aunt a large correspondence?” he asked.
Kitty shook her head. “Aunt Susan abominated letter-writing,” she replied. “My godfather, Mr. Craige, attended to her few business correspondents and I answered any invitations that came to us.”
“Had you any relations living outside of Washington?” he asked.
“A few very distant cousins.” She shrugged her shoulders. “My aunt did not encourage intercourse with them.”
“Their names, please?” Mitchell pulled out a pencil and notebook and thumbed its pages until he found a blank space.
“A. J. Beekman of Detroit.” Kitty watched him in some amusement. “Then there was rather a large family of Smiths in Georgia—I’m sorry I can’t be more definite. Aunt Susan, as I said before, never cultivated her relatives.”