“But Mr. Hunter found the two windows closed, no possible draft could get into the room to blow out the light—nor could any person have blown it out, for the door, the only way of entrance, was locked on the inside. How was it possible to have an accident under those circumstances?”
“Possibly it was suicide, though I cannot bear to think so,” Eleanor spoke with much feeling.
“Miss Thornton,”—Brett rose, walked over to the table, and stood looking directly down into the lovely face raised so confidingly to his—“did your maid ever utter any threats against Captain Frederick Lane in your presence?”
“Never!” Eleanor’s eyes opened in surprise.
“Did she ever insinuate that he had something to do with the murder of Senator Carew?”
“No, never!” But Eleanor’s firm voice quivered as she uttered the denial, and Brett detected it. His eyes lighted with excitement.
“What was Captain Lane doing here last night?”
The question was unexpected, and Eleanor started perceptibly.
“He came to see Miss Carew,” she admitted, faintly.