“Yes. Mr. Craige, sir, the newspapers said that Miss Baird was killed by poison put on a peach,” he spoke in nervous haste and Craige had some difficulty in catching what he said. “Nobody seemed to know where the peaches came from ’cording to the papers.”
“No more we did,” prompted Mitchell. “Well, what then?”
James licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Miss Kitty Baird goes to the market sometimes for Mrs. Parsons, sir. On Saturday she brought back some California peaches,” his voice sank even lower. “She called here Sunday morning, and when she left, the peaches wasn’t on the dining room table.”
Craige stared the butler out of countenance. “Preposterous!” he exclaimed, turning red with indignation. “What are you suggesting, James?”
“Nothing, sir, Mr. Craige. I’m just telling you about the peaches.”
Craige’s face was a study of wrath and bewilderment; the former predominating. With an effort, he checked an oath and instead drew out some loose silver.
“I am glad you spoke only to us, James,” he said. “Come with me, Mitchell,” and paying no attention to the inspector’s protests that he wished further word with the butler, he hurried him toward his car.
So occupied were both men that neither caught James’ furtive glance at the parlor window as he turned to reënter Mrs. Parsons’ house.