“That’s rather a large order,” smiled the detective.
“Well, I’ll amend the question. Who do you think killed Mrs. Trevor?”
Hardy’s eyes flashed with anger. He hated to be made fun of, especially by a young “Mr.-Know-It-All,” and he instantly determined to take the wind out of his sails.
“It isn’t a case of ‘think,’ Mr. Tillinghast; I have absolute proof.”
“Against whom?”
“Miss Beatrice Trevor.”
“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Dick, roughly. But his heart sank as he thought of the hat-pin and Beatrice’s endeavor to secrete it. Should he confide in Hardy? His conscience pricked him. Undoubtedly the detective should be told. But he had given his word to Peggy to shield her friend; let the consequences be what they might, he would keep it.
“Nothing of the sort,” retorted Hardy. “We know they had a bitter quarrel; she threatened to strike her stepmother.”
“Pooh! If we believe everything an angry woman says—” Dick shrugged his shoulders expressively. “Their bark is worse than their bite, Hardy.”
“Maybe so, but not in this instance.”