“It is unbelievable,” she said, and her vehemence was a surprise to Kent; he knew her as all froth and bubble. What had brought the dark circles under her eyes and the unwonted seriousness in her manner?
“Unbelievable, yes,” he agreed gravely. “But true; the autopsy ended all doubt.”
“You mean it developed doubt,” she corrected, and a sigh accompanied the words. “Have the police any clew to the guilty man?”
“I don't know, I'm sure,” Kent spoke with caution.
“You don't?” Her voice was a little sharp. “Didn't Detective Ferguson give you any news when talking to you on the porch?”
“So you recognized the detective?”
“I? No; I have never seen him before”—she nodded gayly to an acquaintance passing through the hall. “Colonel McIntyre told me his name. It was so odd to meet a man here not in evening clothes that I had to ask who he was.”
“Ferguson came to bring me some papers about a personal matter,” explained Kent. He turned so as to face her. “Did you see a white envelope lying on the table when you walked out on the porch?”
She bowed her head absently, her foot keeping time to the inspiring music played by the orchestra stationed on the stair landing just above where they sat. “You left it lying on the table.”
“Yes, so I did,” replied Kent. “And I believe I was so ungallant as to bolt into the dining room in front of you. Please accept my apologies.” Behind her fan, which she used with languid grace, the widow watched him.