His parting salutation met with no response. Both Colonel Hull and his wife were temporarily bereft of speech.
Lucille was stifling a yawn when Herman ushered her mother and father into the drawing-room at Ten Acres. She was unaffectedly glad to see them.
“I hoped that you would come,” she said, as her father kissed her. “Why didn’t you get here for the inquest this afternoon, Dad?”
“Couldn’t leave the office—Armstrong didn’t show up—stocks a bit critical,” Colonel Hull replied jerkily as Mrs. Meredith came toward them. She had heard the arrival of the taxi when in her boudoir and had paused only long enough to inspect herself in her mirror before going to the drawing-room. Hull successfully concealed a frown as he bowed to the handsome widow; outwardly friends, their mistrust was mutual and of long duration.
“We expected you earlier in the day, Julian,” she said. “Didn’t Sam Hollister reach you on the telephone?”
“No.” Hull followed her to the sofa and sat down. “I was told by ‘Central’ that your phone was disconnected.”
“For outsiders, yes, but we can still send calls from here.” She looked at Lucille and her mother and lowered her voice. “Would you care to see John?”
Colonel Hull’s ruddy complexion paled. “No,” he answered, with unnecessary vehemence; then, catching her surprised expression, modified his tone. “I can do John no good, poor lad! And—and—viewing the body would be—ah—harrowing. I would like to remember him as I last saw him.”
“And when was that?” asked a quiet voice at his elbow.
Twisting around Hull found himself confronted by a stranger whose presence had been partly concealed by the wing chair in which he was seated. Mrs. Meredith viewed Hull’s astonishment with some amusement. She broke the pause.