CHAPTER XX. THE UNKNOWN EQUATION
“No, no,” protested Helen vehemently. “You shall not give the envelope to Margaret—you must not.”
“It is mine,” insisted the widow with equal vehemence.
“Mrs. Brewster.” Kent withheld the envelope from both women. “Will you tell me the contents of this envelope?”
“No,” curtly. “It is not your affair.”
“It is my affair,” retorted Kent with equally shortness of manner. “I insist on an answer to my questions in the limousine this morning. How came your handkerchief in Jimmie's possession, and why did you go to the police court and, yet keep your presence there a secret?”
“Jimmie must have picked up the handkerchief when in the McIntyre house,” she answered sullenly. “I presume he forgot to provide himself with one in his make-up as burglar. As regards your second question I admit I did go to the police court out of curiosity—I wanted to find out what was going on. You,” with a resentful glance at Helen, “treated me as an outsider, and I was determined to find out for myself how the burglar farce would end.”
“Ah, you term it a farce—is that why you laughed in court?” asked Kent quickly.
Mrs. Brewster changed color. “I feel badly about that,” she stammered. “I meant no disrespect to Jimmie, but I have a nervous inclination to laugh—almost hysteria—when excited and overwrought.”
“I see,” answered Kent slowly. He was distinctly puzzled; Mrs. Brewster's air of candor disarmed suspicion, but—“You saw and talked with Jimmie Turnbull on Monday night?”