“I know,” broke in Ferguson from his seat on the floor where his encounter with Richards’ muscular figure had landed him. His tumble had disarranged the rug and under its lifted folds he had caught the gleam of light on metal. With impetuous fingers he drew out a pair of long steel shears and held them aloft. “You left a dead man here and came back to find your bloodstained shears.”
An oath ripped from Richards and he made a step forward, but Judith’s clinging hand detained him. She reeled against him as she caught sight of the shears, and he held her closely; his voice, though low, vibrated with passion.
“You—Ferguson!” he gasped.
“Stop!” commanded the detective. “I am not interested in your statements, Major Richards; let your wife answer my last remark.”
“Answer!” Richards choked; then spoke more clearly. “You —— fool! My wife has not heard a word you said—she is stone deaf.”
Ferguson and Coroner Penfield stared dumfounded at husband and wife. The latter was the first to break the strained silence.
“I am sorry, gentlemen,” she said, and her deprecating look, as well as charming voice, conveyed an apology, “I cannot understand what you are saying.” She raised her eyes and gazed perplexedly at her husband. “Joe, I came down to get my ear trumpet.”
Penfield recovered from his surprise. “It is here, madam,” he exclaimed and hurrying to the safe picked up the instrument from one of the compartments and handed it to Judith. With quick deft fingers she adjusted it to her ear and then Ferguson addressed her.
“Now, madam, perhaps you will explain—don’t interfere, Major Richards—I must have an explanation—”
“And so must I.” The interruption came in an unexpected quarter, and both Penfield and the detective wheeled toward the hall door. “What is the meaning of this scene in my house, gentlemen?” Mrs. Hale, tossing her ermine cape on the nearest chair, advanced to the little group, followed by her brother-in-law, John Hale.