“Why, Gerald,” she exclaimed in pleased greeting, “I am so glad that you are here. I understood Lucille to say that you were out of town.”
“I am on my way to the train now,” answered Gerald Armstrong. “I stopped, thinking that Lucille might be home. The Colonel tells me, however, that she has remained at Ten Acres.”
“Yes, Cousin Belle asked her to stay—”
“I don’t know why Belle feels called upon to act as chatelaine,” interrupted her husband. “I suppose she will feel her oats now more than ever.”
“She is grande dame”. Armstrong’s smile only partly covered a sneer. “John Meredith’s suicide was a frightful thing.”
“But it wasn’t suicide,” broke in Mrs. Hull in her turn. “Lucille said it was a case of murder.” Armstrong’s step backward brought him under one of the bracket lights and Mrs. Hull noted with concern his pallor and the haggard lines in his face. He flushed hotly on meeting her gaze, and to cover his confusion stroked his fair mustache, which hid the weakness of his mouth.
“Murder!” he repeated. “It can’t be. Why, John Meredith was beloved, not hated.”
“That is just what I told Julian,” declared Mrs. Hull. “Lucille said it wasn’t a burglar, but it must have been.”
“Of course it was.” Armstrong’s voice of conviction pleased Mrs. Hull, confirming her high opinion of him. It was his custom to side with her in any family discussion. Swiftly he turned to Colonel Hull. “Did Lucille tell you that John Meredith left her a million dollars?”
“Good gracious!”