“You do, eh?” and Hale looked taken aback.
“Yes,” steadily. “Judith is not strong.”
Hale did not reply. Instead, he scrutinized his son-in-law from his well shod foot to the top of his short cropped hair. There was an air of distinction, of courage, in Richards’ carriage and in his firm chin and clear eyes, eyes which did not waver before Hale’s piercing glance.
“That is not a bad plan of yours,” Hale remarked finally. “Perhaps Agatha and I will follow you in a week or two. The fact is”—he selected a chair near Richards—“Austin’s death and the mystery surrounding it are getting on every one’s nerves. It is demoralizing the household. The police—bah! they are incompetents. They never see the obvious.”
“And what is the obvious, Mr. Hale?”
Hale hesitated and cast a doubtful look at his son-in-law.
“The curious behavior of a certain female—”
Richards bent forward and stared at him, waiting for the sentence to be completed.
“What female do you allude to?” he demanded impatiently, breaking the pause.
The portières were pulled aside, and Anna, the waitress, appeared, silver salver in hand.