“Symptoms?” The surgeon was distinctly puzzled by her questions. “It is a mental derangement usually found among the wealthy class, for the craze lies in the act of stealing, and the article stolen is of indifference to the genuine kleptomaniac and is often of no value whatever. A thief steals for gain for himself or another.”
“I see.” Judith paused, and a moment later Dr. McLane, who had been openly studying her—though she was unconscious of it—roused her from her bitter thoughts.
“Where are your mother and Major Richards?” he inquired.
“They have gone to Walter Reed Hospital to see Major LeFevre,” she explained. “I did not feel equal to the long trip and had them leave me here after a short turn on the speedway.”
“It would have been better had you stayed out in the fresh air,” commented McLane frankly. “You are brooding too much, Judith. I fear”—with a keen glance at her—“Austin’s death has upset you more than you realize.”
“We are all upset,” she admitted. “And the suspense—not knowing who is guilty of the crime is terrible.” She paused a moment. “Could it have been suicide?”
McLane shook his head. “Impossible, judging from the nature of the wound,” he insisted. “The autopsy proved that.”
Judith straightened up. “You were present at the autopsy, were you not?”
“Yes.”
“Doctor,”—Judith’s hesitation was perceptible as she toyed with her fan—“do you believe that Austin was stabbed with a pair of shears?”