“And not necessarily in a church.”
Betty snuggled down more comfortably among the cushions, but one hand, tucked carefully out of sight, was tightly clenched. “So you still sneer at religion,” she commented softly.
Trenholm shook his head. “I would never scoff did I for one instant believe that true religion has a part in your life.” At his answer her eyes sparkled with anger, but she masked her feelings under an ingratiating smile.
“You have changed, Guy Trenholm, since the old days in France,” she remarked, and her voice held an undertone of feeling he failed to understand.
“For the worse?” he asked quickly.
“Perhaps.” She lapsed into silence, which he did not care to break. His air of strength, of self-sufficiency, irritated her and she watched him covertly while pretending to be absorbed in thought. Even her fastidious taste could find no fault with his well-tailored riding suit and leather boots. She grudgingly admitted to herself that the years had brought improvement in raiment if not in manners. Whatever else he became, he would never be metamorphosed into a society man. No social badinage would cover his thoughts; he would say what he had to say with sledge-hammer effect whatever the occasion. Betty’s heavy sigh was audible and he glanced at her inquiringly.
“Strange, is it not,” he began, as she remained silent, “that you and Alan and I should be thrown together as we were in France during the War, and that we should meet under Paul’s roof.”
“Not so very remarkable,” she objected. “We have seen each other frequently during the past five years.”
Trenholm threw his cigarette into the fire and leaned forward.
“What motive inspired Paul’s murder?” he asked.