As the parlor maid hurried down the hall, Richards paused in thought; Mrs. Hale had not invited him to go with her to the drawing-room, but—with bent head he meditatively paced up and down, his steps involuntarily carrying him nearer and nearer the portières; as he paused irresolutely before them, Mrs. Hale’s voice came to him clearly.
“Detective Ferguson, I must insist on an answer to my question.”
Richards jerked the portières aside and without ceremony entered the drawing-room. Ferguson turned at sound of his footsteps and bowed to him before answering Mrs. Hale who was regarding him with fixed attention.
“I can’t tell you anything, Mrs. Hale,” he protested. “I came here to get information.”
“What information?” Mrs. Hale had frowned at sight of Richards, then, her momentary displeasure gone, addressed herself to the detective. She enjoyed the rôle of inquisitor.
“I wanted to talk with Mr. John Hale.”
“He is out.”
“So your maid said.” Ferguson fingered the table ornaments with restless fingers; he was getting nowhere and time was slipping away. “Where’s he gone?”
Richards answered the question. “To the cemetery, I understood him to say.” He glanced at his watch. “Mr. Hale should be back in a very short time.”
“Then I’ll wait, Major,” and Ferguson, who had secretly resented Mrs. Hale’s discourtesy in not asking him to be seated, jerked forward a chair and threw himself into it. “Can I see your husband, madam?”