“Yes. I had tied a handkerchief loosely about the butt of the revolver so as not to leave finger prints,” Craige added. “It was clever of you, Rodgers, to trace the handkerchief as you did. In my haste that night, I never noticed that I had one of Cecelia’s handkerchiefs in my pocket and none of my own.” He paused, his voice had grown husky. “Well, that clears up the mystery.”
“All but Mrs. Parsons’ part in it,” broke in Rodgers. “Where did she come in, Craige?”
Craige’s color mounted, then receded, leaving him deadly white.
“She cut a big splurge here,” he began, “and soon went through her money. She found out about Miss Baird and came here early Monday morning, knowing that Kitty was spending the night with her cousins, hoping to borrow from Susan. She found the front door open, so she told me, and walked in. When she discovered Miss Baird lying dead in the library, she bolted home and called up the police.”
“And why did she try to bribe Oscar?” demanded Kitty.
“She wanted some papers to prove that your aunt was a money-lender,” Craige twisted about, his growing uneasiness plainly indicated by his avoidance of their gaze.
“In other words,” cut in Mitchell. “Mrs. Parsons hoped to blackmail Miss Kitty Baird by threatening to expose her aunt’s career.”
Craige nodded sullenly. “Something like that,” he admitted.
Rodgers had not taken his eyes from him. “Did Mrs. Parsons know that you wished to marry Kitty?” he asked.