“Yes.”
“But, my heavens, man! Why?”
John Hale shifted his walking stick from one hand to the other. “Overwork,” he said briefly; “unbalanced.”
“Good Lord!” Again Latimer considered him. “Polly did not look ill.”
“But she was,” fiercely. “Any fool could have seen it.”
“Possibly so,” agreed Latimer quietly. “I haven’t seen Polly as frequently as you or Austin.”
John Hale’s strong white teeth snapped viciously at his under lip.
“Leave Austin’s name out of it”—his manner was dictatorial in the extreme and Latimer flushed.
“I will, with pleasure, but”—he hesitated, then disregarding John Hale’s glare, continued steadily—“are you quite sure that Austin’s tragic death has not had something to do with Polly’s—as you claim—mental condition?”
John Hale compressed his lips ominously. “No,” he declared. “Get such an idea out of your head at once.”