Evelyn nodded. “It was foolish of me to make a scene,” she admitted. “But I am weaker than I realized. Will you come with me, Mother?”
“Yes, my dear,” and slipping her hand within Evelyn’s she gently helped her across the hall and into the library.
There was distinct rumbling of thunder and the darkness preceding the heavy electrical storms, almost tropical in their violence, which visit Washington occasionally, was creeping up; even the air was oppressive and Mrs. Burnham shivered involuntarily as she entered the library with Evelyn and greeted the coroner.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said graciously. “My daughter is not very well, so you must excuse us.”
“I’ll not detain you long, Miss Preston.” Penfield noted Evelyn’s haggard appearance with concern. “There are just one or two questions I must ask you; for instance, did you on your arrival here Tuesday morning wind that clock?” pointing to the mantel.
“No, but it was going,” replied Evelyn positively.
“Ah, then some one besides yourself wound it.” The coroner’s air of triumph at having established his theory of the house being occupied in the absence of the Burnhams was quickly dashed by Mrs. Burnham.
“The clock runs for a year,” she stated. “We wound it last June.”
“Oh!” The coroner stared at her in acute disappointment, then continued more briskly: “Can you tell me, Mrs. Burnham, if you have any cherry brandy in your wine cellar?”
“We had last year some cherry cordial—we call it ‘Cherry Bounce’,” explained Mrs. Burnham; she winced slightly as a peal of thunder echoed through the house. “Would you mind pulling down the curtains? I am deathly afraid of lightning—one of my idiosyncrasies,” she added, and the coroner hastened to pull the long curtains across the windows.