“You called to see Secretary Wyndham at the Navy Department on Wednesday morning, did you not, Miss Thornton?”
Douglas’ hand tightened involuntarily, but Eleanor showed no sign of agitation as she answered, “Yes, Mr. Secretary, I did.”
“Have you anything further to say, Mr. Winthrop?”
“Not now, Mr. Secretary.”
“Then let me suggest,” exclaimed Thornton, “that Mr. Winthrop, in trying to implicate my niece in a dastardly crime, has but established his own guilt.”
“How so?” The question shot from Winthrop’s clenched teeth.
“We all know from the testimony of reputable servants that Senator Carew and you had quarreled,” continued Thornton. “We know your habits are none of the best; we know that you have suddenly become possessed of large sums of money——”
Winthrop moistened his dry lips. “I deny it,” he exclaimed.
Thornton paid no attention to the interruption. “You alone knew where Senator Carew was spending the evening, and you went there and laid in wait for him, and now, you despicable cur, you are trying to lay the blame on an innocent girl.”
Winthrop rose, goaded by the scornful looks of the others. “I may have had the motive and the opportunity to kill Senator Carew,” he admitted sullenly, “but I did not have—the weapon. The criminal sits there,”—he pointed at Eleanor;—“I am absolutely positive of her guilt, for the letter file used to kill the Senator belonged to a silver desk set given her by Miss Cynthia Carew.”