“I did not.” Her denial was firm.
“Then how did you learn of his arrest?” asked Kent swiftly.
“I overheard him conversing—”
“With whom?” Kent demanded eagerly as she paused as if to reconsider her confidences. Helen, one hand on the desk and the other on the arm of her chair, tried to rise, but her strength had deserted her. “With whom?” repeated Kent as the widow remained silent.
“Jimmie was talking with Grimes,” Mrs. Brewster stated slowly. “From what I overheard, he paid Grimes to let him inside the house.”
Kent looked perplexed as he gazed first at the widow and then at Helen, who had sunk back in her chair.
“Mrs. Brewster,” he began after a pause. “Who gave Jimmie your aconitine pills which Grimes left on the hall table?”
“The murderer.”
“Yes, of course.” Kent was watching her closely and he detected the tiny beads of perspiration which were gathering on her upper lip. “And who, in your opinion, was the murderer?”
Mrs. Brewster's expression changed—she looked hunted, and her eyes fell before Kent's; abruptly she turned her back on him, to find Colonel McIntyre at her elbow and Barbara just entering the room. Her eyes traveled past the girl until they rested on Philip Rochester and Detective Ferguson hovering behind him. Her face altered.