“Senator Carew’s bedroom, bath, and sitting-room are over this part of the house; Miss Cynthia Carew occupies the suite of rooms across the hall from his rooms. My mother and I have the third floor to ourselves.” Winthrop plucked nervously at the desk pad. “Talking is dry work; won’t you and Mr. Hunter join me, I’ll ring for Joshua.”
“One moment,” Brett’s tone was peremptory and, with an unmistakable scowl, Winthrop sank down in his chair and leaned heavily on the desk. “What members of the family were in the house yesterday afternoon?”
Winthrop thought for a moment before replying. “No one but my uncle and myself,” he said reluctantly. “My mother and Miss Carew went out early to some bridge party, and did not return until just before dinner.”
“I see.” Brett leaned back in his chair and contemplated Winthrop thoughtfully.
“Mr. Winthrop,” asked Douglas, breaking the short silence, “were you and your uncle always on good terms?”
“Why, yes.” Winthrop’s twitching fingers closed unconsciously on the slender desk file, and as he spoke his shifting eyes dropped from Douglas’ clear gaze, and fell on the sharp steel desk ornament in his hand. With a convulsive shudder he dropped it and sprang to his feet. “What’s all this questioning about?” he demanded loudly. “I’ve had enough of this, you——” his hands clinched, and the blood flamed his pale face, a gurgle choked his utterance, and before Brett could reach him he fell prone across the desk.
[CHAPTER VII]
A PIECE OF ORIENTAL SILK
“I’M glad you could come back, Mr. Hunter,” said Brett, as Joshua opened the library door of the Carew residence and admitted Douglas. “Can you stay here all night?”