“Trying to help Mr. Brett solve the mystery of Senator Carew’s death.”
“Good Heavens! What earthly business is it of his?”
“Don’t ask me,” Eleanor’s usually tranquil voice was a trifle sharp. “I suppose he is hoping to win the reward offered by Mrs. Winthrop.”
“Reward?” Cynthia’s voice rose, and drowned the sound of a faint knock at the hall door.
“Yes. Your aunt announced that she would give five thousand dollars to anyone who could solve the mystery.” Cynthia was listening with absorbed attention to Eleanor, and neither noticed that the hall door was pushed open a few inches, then softly closed. “Uncle Dana told her that was too much to offer, and she reduced the sum to one thousand dollars, with the proviso that it should be increased if the first offer brought no result.”
Cynthia sighed deeply. “Why, why did she do it?” she cried passionately. “She must be mad!”
Eleanor glanced at her companion in astonishment. “Cynthia, you must not excite yourself,” she remonstrated firmly. “Otherwise, I shall leave you.”
Cynthia reached out and clutched her arm. “Don’t go,” she entreated. “I must——” her words were interrupted by a sharp rap on the hall door. “Come in.”
In response Annette opened the door. “Pardon, Mademoiselle, but it is five o’clock, and I thought you might like your tea up here instead of downstairs.”
“Capital, Annette,” exclaimed Eleanor, as the maid entered carrying a tray. “Wait a moment, and I will get that small table.” Deftly she removed the books and magazines, and then carried the table over to the couch. Annette put a tray laden with tempting sandwiches, small cakes, the teapot and its accessories, on the table, then bent over and arranged Cynthia’s pillows at her back with practiced hand.