“Let me help you,” and Craige, who with the other men had risen on the widow’s entrance, assisted her in removing her wrap.
Mrs. Parsons presented an alluring picture in her chic crêpe de Chine calling costume, its soft folds showing her graceful figure to advantage. Mrs. Parsons, with reason, was vain of her neck and arms and generally wore elbow sleeves and square cut neck. She was making a round of visits, and as she removed her long white gloves, she laid her gold card case and mesh bag before her on the tea table.
Mouchette eyed them for a second and then put out an inquisitive paw. Mrs. Parsons promptly drew both bag and card case out of the cat’s reach. Craige, who missed nothing the widow either said or did, lifted Mouchette off the table and held her on his knee. He was aware of Mrs. Parsons’ fear of cats. Mouchette submitted to his petting with good grace and much purring, and finally curled up in his lap, but her yellow eyes never ceased watching Mrs. Parsons.
“Is this a séance?” asked Mrs. Parsons as the silence continued. “If not,” her eyebrows lifted, “why are we sitting around this table?”
“We are waiting for Inspector Mitchell to, as he expressed it, ‘lay his cards on the table,’” Potter spoke with a sneer. “In other words, Cecelia, you are in at the death.”
Mrs. Parsons’ slight start was lost on all but Craige.
“Drop the melodrama, Ben,” he said. “We prefer to listen to Inspector Mitchell and not to you. Go on, Inspector.”
But the Inspector was doomed to another interruption, for as he hitched his chair closer to Nina Potter, the sound of footsteps in the gallery circling the library drew all eyes upward. With the aid of his nurse, Ted Rodgers was making his way down the gallery steps with faltering speed.
“Don’t any one rise,” he begged, as they started to their feet. Kitty was the first to reach his side.