CHAPTER XI. HALF A TRUTH
Dancing was being resumed in the dining room as Kent appeared again in the doorway and he made his way as quickly as possible among the couples, going into all the rooms on that floor, but nowhere could he find Detective Ferguson. On emerging from the drawing room, he encountered the steward returning from downstairs.
“Have you seen Mr. Clymer?” he asked hurriedly.
“Yes, Mr. Kent; he just left the club, taking Detective Ferguson with him in his motor. Is there anything I can do?” added the steward observing Kent's agitation.
“No, no, thanks. Say, where is Colonel McIntyre?” Kent gave up further pursuit of the detective, he could find him later at Headquarters. The steward looked among the dancers. “I don't see him,” he said, “But there is Mrs. Brewster dancing in the front room; the Colonel must be somewhere around. If I meet him, Mr. Kent, shall I tell him you are looking for him?”
“I will be greatly obliged if you will do so,” replied Kent, and straightening his tie, he went in quest of the pretty widow. He had found her a merry chatter-box in the past, possibly he could gain valuable information from her. He found Mrs. Brewster just completing her dance with a fine looking Italian officer whose broad breast bore many military decorations.
“Dance the encore with me”—Kent could be very persuasive when he wished, and Mrs. Brewster dimpled with pleasure, but there was a faint indecision in her manner which he was quick to note. What prompted it? He had been on friendly terms with her; in fact, she had openly championed his cause, so Barbara had once told him, when Colonel McIntyre had made caustic remarks about his frequent calls at the McIntyre house.
“Just one turn,” she said, as the foreigner bowed and withdrew. “I am feeling a little weary to-night—the strain of the inquest,” she, added in explanation.
“Perhaps you would rather sit out the dance,” he suggested. “There is an alcove in that window; oh, pshaw!” as a man and a girl took possession of the chairs.
“Never mind, we can roost on the stairs,” Mrs. Brewster preceded him to the staircase leading to the third floor, and sat down, bracing her back very comfortably against the railing, while Kent seated himself at her feet on the lower step. “Extraordinary developments at the inquest this afternoon,” he began, as she volunteered no remark. “To think of Jimmie Turnbull being poisoned!”