“About what—politics?” mentioning the topic farthest from her thoughts; she was too nervously inclined to discuss personal matters.
“Politics?” repeated Mrs. Porter. “You’ll find no argument there, Vera; I’ve lived too long in Washington not to float with the tide—mine are always Administration politics. But”—with a sudden sharp glance at her companion under lowered lids—“I am always interested in the tattle-tales of Cupid. Your sister Dorothy and my nephew Hugh don’t seem to be as good friends as formerly; what has estranged them?”
Vera’s fingers closed tightly over the arm of her chair and her answer was slow in coming. “Oh, they have frequent bickerings.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps the present tiff is more serious—for the moment.”
Mrs. Porter looked relieved. “I hope you are right, for I have quite set my heart on that being a match. Do you know,” in a sudden burst of confidence very foreign to her usually reserved nature, “I was beginning to fear that Bruce Brainard’s horrible death might have been at the bottom of the estrangement.”
“Oh, Mrs. Porter!” Vera’s shocked expression drew instant explanation and Mrs. Porter, in her excitement, failed to observe Vera’s growing agitation.
“The atmosphere of this place since the tragedy distorts every action, every idea!” she began incoherently. “I do my utmost to forget it, but I can think of nothing else. And you found Bruce dead on Tuesday morning—only forty-eight hours ago!”
“It seems a lifetime!” confessed Vera wearily.
“And that stupid detective has done nothing,” fumed Mrs. Porter. “In the face of no evidence, he still thinks Bruce was murdered.”
“I don’t catch your meaning.” And Vera looked as puzzled as she felt.
“Why, if Bruce had been murdered there would have been some clue; whereas, the lack of evidence against anyone proves that Bruce must have committed suicide.”