Galvanized into life, Armstrong turned and glared at Brown.
“You’re a damned liar!” he cried. “The knife belongs to Fernando—”
“Who loaned it to you.” Curtis’ voice cut the air like a whiplash. “It was you, Armstrong, who knew that John Meredith had drawn out one hundred thousand dollars in cash to invest in certain securities; it was you who took advantage of another’s misfortune; you, contemptible hound that you are, made a woman your cat’s-paw—” He wheeled around. “Mitchell, bring Gretchen here.”
The grim earnestness of his tone called for prompt unquestioned obedience, and Mitchell swung around to find Susanne pushing the pretty Dutch girl into the room. In her terror Gretchen sat down on the nearest chair and Brown, with instant forethought, wheeled the chair and its occupant forward.
“Here she is, Doctor Curtis,” he announced. “Right forninst ye.”
“Gretchen,” Curtis spoke more kindly, “at the inquest you testified that the voice of the woman under your window on Sunday night was that of your ‘young Mees.’ Coroner Penfield took it for granted that you referred to your employer, Miss Anne Meredith. This time we require a spoken answer; do not nod your head, as you did before. Did you mean by ‘young Mees,’ Miss Anne or Miss Lucille Hull?” Gretchen’s terrified gaze swept the room. “I—I—” she faltered. “It was—God help me—it was—” she gulped a sob. “It was Mees Lucille.”
Curtis broke the pause as he faced toward the door. “Is Miss Hull present?”
“Yes.” Lucille controlled her voice admirably, but Doctor McLane noted with growing alarm her ghastly, twitching features. “What is it, Doctor Curtis?”
“Are you engaged to marry Gerald Armstrong?” Lucille carefully refrained from looking at her mother.
“I was,” she admitted, “once.”