Sheriff Trenholm was standing in the center of Abbott’s old bedroom staring at the windows, the curtains of which were drawn. He turned around at Miriam’s entrance and, stepping behind her, closed the hall door.
“I don’t wish our talk to be interrupted,” he said by way of explanation. “Now, Miss Ward, exactly what occurred here last night?”
Miriam studied the man in front of her in silence. There was something big and fine about Guy Trenholm—an air of candor, of strength—that impressed her, but an inborn caution, a streak inherited from some dour Scottish ancestor, kept back the words on her tongue. Suppose the sheriff was setting a trap for her?
“Will I be called as a witness at the inquest?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Then why question me now?”
His smile was friendly as he pulled forward a chair and stood resting one hand on it. “The inquest may be delayed a few days,” he explained. “There is a conflict of authority as to jurisdiction”—he paused, then added more briskly: “Is the furniture in this room placed as it was last night?”
Miriam stared about her before answering. “It is just the same,” she said.
“And the windows?”
“Two were open.” She crossed the room and laid her hand on a tall mahogany screen. “I placed this here so that the air would not blow directly on Mr. Abbott and arranged the curtains at that window so as to protect him also.”