Curtis felt his heart skip a beat and then race on.
“I will do anything, anything for you,” he replied, a trifle unsteadily. “And will gladly carry out your uncle’s plan.”
“Thank God!” she whispered.
The portières were thrust back suddenly and Mrs. Meredith stood on the threshold, with Hollister behind her.
“You may go to your room, Anne,” she said in icy tones.
A second later the portières dropped back into place and Curtis was alone.
CHAPTER IX
TWO PIECES OF STRING
David Curtis felt around his empty cigarette case and sighed regretfully; he had not realized his rapid consumption of its contents. The cigarettes had, at least, provided diversion of a sort. Since Anne’s peremptory summons by her mother, he had been left severely alone. No one had entered the library and the folding doors, which had been in use for the inquest in place of the portières, and closed again by Mrs. Meredith after Anne’s departure, had prevented his hearing anything transpiring in the hall. The clock on the mantel had ticked off the minutes with maddening regularity. At the stroke of ten he laid on the smoking table, by his elbow, a box of matches, which he had been twiddling between his fingers, and picked up his cane. The opening of one of the library doors caused him to face in its direction.
“Excuse me, sir,” apologized Herman as he advanced further into the room, “I did not know you were still here, sir. I was thinking of closing up the house for the night.”