When Trenholm reappeared in the hall his face was set and stern. He paused, after locking the door again and pocketing the key, to wipe tiny drops of moisture from his forehead. Were his theories entirely wrong? No, he would stake his reputation that he was right, in spite of his last discovery.
“Mr. Trenholm!” Miriam touched him on the arm and aroused him from his abstraction, an abstraction so profound that he had never heard her approach. “Miss Carter has revived and is resting quietly. I think it is safe to leave her.”
“Good!” Trenholm’s relief was unmistakable and sincere. “Where are you going?”
“Downstairs to see if Doctor Roberts has returned,” she said, as he walked with her. She looked up at him impulsively. “Miss Carter is suffering horribly—”
“I thought you said that she was improving,” halting abruptly on the landing of the staircase.
“I mean mental agony. Mr. Trenholm, can’t you help her?”
“And you ask that?” The light in his eyes caused her to catch her breath sharply, then her heart raced on. “Come, you have never told me whom you think guilty of Paul’s murder?” He led the way into the sunparlor, where Anna had lighted two of the lamps before returning to the kitchen. Trenholm adjusted the Holland shades and curtains before the windows to his satisfaction, then sat down near Miriam.
She stared at him thoughtfully before speaking. “I learned only a few hours ago of the bloodstained sheet,” she said, “and that Corbin was so treacherous as to let you infer—”
He interrupted her hastily. “My inferences or deductions cleared you of any complicity in the crime,” his clear, strong voice and charming smile dispelled her agonizing suspense. “I never doubted you, Miss Ward, never. Although the exigencies of the case may have led me to imply otherwise, I never lost faith in your integrity—your honor—your splendid courage—”
“Ahem!”