Potter did not reply at once; instead, he scrutinized her intently. She was well worth a second glance. Her type of face belonged to the Eighteenth Century, and as she sat in her high-backed chair, her prematurely grey hair, artistically arranged, in pretty contrast to her delicately arched eyebrows, she resembled a French marquise of the court of Louis XIV. She bore Potter’s penetrating gaze with undisturbed composure. He was the first to shift his glance.
“Suppose I take a chair and we talk things over,” he suggested. “You are not very cordial-to-night.”
Mrs. Parsons smiled ironically. “Take a chair by all means; that one by the door looks substantial. Now,” as he dragged it over and placed it directly in front of her. “I will repeat my question—why do you wish to see me?”
“You ask that—and a newspaper by your side!” Potter pointed contemptuously at the paper lying on the floor. “Have you seen Kitty Baird since the inquest?”
Mrs. Parsons shook her head. “There was hardly time for her to get here; besides she must be very weary, not to say—unstrung.” She held out her cigarette case, but Potter waved it away, making no effort politely to restrain his impatience. “So dear Miss Susan Baird was poisoned after all.”
“And why ‘after all’?” swiftly. “Why ‘dear Miss Susan’?”
A shrug of her shapely shoulders answered him. “You are always so intense, Ben,” she remarked. “Why not ‘dear Miss Susan’? Had you any reason to dislike your cousin?”
“Had any one any reason to like her?” he asked gruffly. “You don’t need to be told that.” His smile had little mirth in it. “The poor soul is dead—murdered.” He looked at her queerly. “How much does Kitty see of Major Leigh Wallace?”
Mrs. Parsons selected another cigarette with care. “So that is the reason I am honored by a visit from you.” Tossing back her head, she inspected him from head to foot. “How am I qualified to answer your question? I am not Kitty’s guardian.”
“No, but you are her employer,” with quiet emphasis. “And Major Wallace is a frequent caller here.”