“I heard what you said,” she stated. “And would like an explanation of your extraordinary conduct.”
“There is nothing extraordinary about it,” Trenholm replied quietly. “If you really insist upon an explanation—”
“I do,” her passion rising.
“Paul died Monday night—this is Thursday,” he spoke gravely. “A change has already set in and it is not possible to keep the casket open longer.”
Betty was thankful for the railing of the stairs to lean against.
“I have never been permitted to be with him—”
“I beg your pardon—you have.”
“Never alone.” She had turned ghastly in color. “Always you have had some one stationed in the room.”
Trenholm looked at her in growing concern. “Hadn’t you better rest?” he asked. “The funeral will take place in twenty minutes.”
Trenholm was doubtful if she heard him, so fixed was her stare. He turned quickly to see what had focused her attention. Standing by the newel post was Alexander Nash in earnest conversation with Alan Mason and a third man, the rector of the Episcopal church at Upper Marlboro. Trenholm laid his hand on Betty’s arm. It was shaken off instantly and she shot down the hall to her bedroom without further word. Trenholm stood in thought for several minutes and then joined Alan Mason.