Hale smiled with his lips only. “Let us face the situation,” he remarked. “Polly met Austin here on Tuesday night—”
“How do you know she did?” John demanded hotly.
“I saw her,” calmly.
“You—” John stared at him. “You were ill in bed.”
“I was ill—but not in bed,” corrected Hale. “Anna had forgotten to put a glass of ice water on my bed table and, becoming thirsty, I got up, walked down the hall and helped myself from the pitcher and glasses which always stand there at night.” He paused. “I started to return when I thought I heard a woman crying and I took several steps down the circular staircase—”
“Well?” prompted John, as his brother stopped to take breath. “Continue.”
“You are interested?” A mocking gleam shone for an instant in Hale’s deep-set eyes. “I glanced over the bannister into the central hall and saw Polly Davis come out of the library.”
The silence in the den grew oppressive. Suddenly John Hale raised both hands and tugged at his collar as if for air. Then, just as suddenly, his hands fell to his sides.
“What followed?” he asked, and Hale wondered at the moderation of his tone. He had expected a tongue-lashing at the least, if not a physical encounter—his taut muscles relaxed and he assumed an easier position.
“Polly stood clinging to the portières for an instant, then before I could call to her, she ran to the front door and dashed outside,” Hale continued.