“We all bolted together,” she responded, “and are equally guilty—”
“Of what?” questioned a voice from the background, and looking up Kent saw Colonel McIntyre standing on the step above Mrs. Brewster. The music had ceased and in the lull their conversation had been distinctly audible.
“Guilty of curiosity,” finished the widow.
“Colonel de Geofroy's farewell speech was very amusing, did you not think so?”
“I did not stay to hear it,” Kent confessed. “I had to return to the porch and get my envelope.”
“You were a long time about it,” commented McIntyre, sitting down by Mrs. Brewster and possessing himself of her fan. “I waited to tell you that Helen and Barbara were worn out after the inquest and so stayed at home to-night, but you didn't show up.”
“Neither did the envelope,” retorted Kent, and as his companions looked at him, he added. “It had disappeared off the table.”
“Probably blew away,” suggested McIntyre. “I noticed a strong current of air from the dining room, and two of the windows inclosing the porch were open.
“That's hardly possible,” Kent replied skeptically. “The envelope weighed at least two ounces; it would have taken quite a gale to budge it.”
McIntyre turned red. “Are you insinuating that one of us walked off with your envelope, Kent?” he demanded angrily. Mrs. Brewster stayed him as he was about to rise.