“A detective—now go,” and Mrs. Ward resumed her knitting.
CHAPTER XVIII
“THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL”
BY the time Jones reached the front hall he found the door open and Mrs. Burnham awaiting his arrival with an angry sparkle in her eyes.
“Late again, Jones,” she remarked, and her tone caused the butler to flush uncomfortably. “Help Mr. Burnham off with his coat and then assist him to bed.”
Burnham rejected the butler’s aid with the same petulance he had shown to Maynard when the latter offered his assistance.
“I’m not a baby,” he remarked through chattering teeth. “What if I did catch a chill coming home, Lillian; it’s nothing serious. Here, take my keys, Jones, and bring me some whiskey from the sideboard.” Jerking the bunch of keys from the front door lock where he had left it dangling in his haste to enter the house, he tossed it to the waiting servant, and laying his hand on Maynard’s arm started with him up the staircase. Mrs. Burnham turned to follow when Evelyn, who had remained in the vestibule, stepped inside the house, closed the door, and called her softly by name.
“Come in the dining room, Mother, dear,” she said. “I must have a word with you, alone,” and the quiet emphasis on the last word belied her unnaturally high color and brilliant eyes. “Please, Mother.” Seeing Mrs. Burnham hesitate, she moved forward and gently encircled her waist with her arm. “Spare just a moment to me.”
Mrs. Burnham bent forward and kissed her with warmth. “Of course, Evelyn,” she said cheerily. “Say as many words to me as you want,” and she led the way into the drawing room, pausing only long enough to turn on the lights.
“Sit by me here,” she suggested, making herself comfortable on the sofa, but Evelyn, too nervous to remain quiet, only paused in her restless moving about to stand in front of her.
“Mother,” she began, and in spite of her determination to keep her voice steady it shook. “I love René La Montagne.”