“I imagine not. We ate breakfast together and she said nothing.” Hollister polished his bald head with his handkerchief. “Her devotion to Julian Hull is akin to that of a dumb animal. I am glad that she did not see the morning paper. Damason, here, handed it to me just as she left the dining-room.” Curtis turned his sightless eyes inquiringly in the direction of the dining-room.
“Damason?” he asked, and the Filipino, hovering in the background, came a step nearer.
“Yes, honorable doctor.”
“Where is Mr. Gerald Armstrong?”
“Asleep, honorable sir.”
“What—and with this story abroad?” Hollister raised the morning newspaper with its glaring headlines before tossing it to one side.
“Please, sir, it is the cock’s tail,” ventured Damason. “He drink many. You like I try and wake Mr. Armstrong?”
“Yes. Tell him to come to the library, and, Damason,” sternly, “you come with him.” The Filipino bowed humbly, then, turning, took the circular staircase two steps at a time, in his blind haste nearly colliding with Lucille Hull and Leonard McLane as they walked down the corridor in earnest conversation.
Inside the library Mrs. Meredith was regarding Coroner Penfield thoughtfully through gold-rimmed lorgnettes.
“If I am correct, and I think I am,” she stated coldly, “the next hearing of this inquest is scheduled for to-morrow. Why then should my daughter and I be subjected to further questioning to-day?”