Leaving the breakfast tray for Martha to take to the pantry, Miriam ran lightly down the staircase and out of the front door. The driveway was entirely clear of snow and at the sound of Miriam’s tread on the gravel, Nash looked over his shoulder and halted abruptly.
“Does my wife need me?” he asked. “I’ll go to her at once.”
“No, wait.” Miriam, to her surprise, was breathing rapidly, and paused to recover herself. What was there about this middle-aged man confronting her to make her nervous? A certain hardness about the clean-shaven, handsome mouth, a drooping lid which partly covered one of his blue eyes—no, they did not account for her instinctive dread of the clergyman. She caught Nash’s surprise at her continued silence and spoke in haste to cover her embarrassment. “Miss Carter is with your wife.”
“Ah, then you are out for a walk. Pardon me for detaining you,” and Nash raised his hat, intending to move on, but Miriam checked him.
“Just a moment,” she exclaimed. “Your wife wishes you to send for Somers.”
“Somers?” questioningly. “Ah, very well. I will go at once and telephone.”
“Again I must detain you.” Miriam spoke with assurance. She had caught sight of Guy Trenholm as he turned the corner of the house and came toward them. Her eyes brightened. Trenholm had come most opportunely. Unconscious of her added color, she turned to the silent man regarding her, as Trenholm paused by her side.
“Doctor Nash,” she began, “I have told Sheriff Trenholm of Miss Carter’s visit to Mr. Paul Abbott on Monday night just before he was murdered and that you accompanied her and, in my absence from the sick room, performed the marriage ceremony. Will you kindly confirm that statement?”
Alexander Nash eyed her and Trenholm, then his gaze swept upward to a window of his wife’s bedroom where Betty Carter stood looking down at them. His gaze turned again to Miriam and the silent, attentive sheriff.
“On Monday night?” he asked, and his voice was under admirable control. “I fail to recall any such occurrence.”