“Wanted?” Alan dropped the cigar from his nervous fingers and hastily stooped to pick it up. When he sat back his face was flushed. “Wanted—for what?”
“As chief witness. Hello, who’s here?”—as the knocker on the front door sounded in three hurried blows.
Pablo, busy in clearing off the dining room table, scurried into the hall and the murmur of voices sounded first faintly and then came distinctly to their ears. The three men gazed blankly at each other as Pablo pulled back the portières.
“Mees Carter,” he announced and discreetly vanished.
“Betty!” Alan was the first on his feet. “Why are you here?”
Betty’s glance swept by him to Roberts and then to her host.
“I wish to see you, Guy Trenholm,” she said. “Why have you put a guard around the vault where Paul lies?”
As she came further into the library, the men saw that the hem of her short walking suit and her high boots were splashed with mud. Trenholm pulled back a chair and stepped toward her.
“So that his grave will not be molested,” he replied quietly. “There are ghouls who, attracted by the newspaper accounts of Paul’s tragic death, would not hesitate to enter the vault if given an opportunity. You have been there to-night?”
“That is obvious,” with a glance at her muddy condition and the smart walking stick which she carried. Her hair, naturally curly, showed under the brim of her sport hat, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold night air. But to Trenholm’s keen vision, there was a strained look about her eyes, a continuous twitching of her hands which betrayed nerves keyed to the highest tension. “Doctor Roberts,” she turned impulsively to the older man, ignoring Alan, “has Sheriff Trenholm told you his theory of the murder?”