Ferguson scrutinized her narrowly; he was not prepossessed in her favor and from the little he had seen of her wondered that she should have refrained from telling her husband of the tragedy of the early morning, for he judged her to be the type of woman who must talk at all costs. That she had not told her husband implied—— The detective’s cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of John Hale and a companion whom Ferguson instantly recognized from the frequent publication of his photograph in the local papers.
Francis Latimer, senior member of the firm of Latimer and House, stockbrokers, was one of the popular bachelors of Washington. Inclined to embonpoint, of medium height, a little bald, and wearing round, horn spectacles, he resembled in his fastidiousness of dress and deportment a Pickwick in modern attire. At the moment his face, generally round and rosy with an ever present smile, wore an unusual seriousness of expression as he greeted Mrs. Hale and Richards. He glanced inquiringly at Ferguson and returned that official’s bow with a courteous inclination of his head.
“Detective Ferguson has been waiting to see you, John,” explained Mrs. Hale, as the men stood for a second in silence.
Ferguson stepped forward. “You told me to call at ten o’clock, Mr. Hale,” he reminded him, and John nodded.
“So I did,” he acknowledged. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I had to see the superintendent of the cemetery,” he stopped and cleared his voice. “Latimer and I have just returned from making arrangements for the funeral services. Have you,” again a slight huskiness in his usually clear voice slurred his words, “have you heard, Ferguson, the result of the autopsy?”
“No, Mr. Hale, but it was held——” Ferguson looked over his shoulder on hearing footsteps behind him and saw Leonard McLane walk between the portières of the folding doors, held back by the attentive waitress, Anna.
“Dr. McLane,”—the detective gave no one an opportunity to greet the busy surgeon—“you were present with Coroner Penfield at the post-mortem examination of young Hale, were you not?”
“Yes.” McLane took the hand Mrs. Hale extended to him and gave it a reassuring squeeze; he judged from her unaccustomed pallor that she was much upset. “Yes, well?” and he looked inquiringly at the detective.
“Tell us the result, doctor,” urged Ferguson, and added as McLane hesitated, “You will be betraying no confidences, because the coroner telephoned me to stop and see him about it when I leave here.”
“Go ahead, McLane,” broke in John Hale. “I am entitled to know what caused Austin’s death—don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” and McLane, looking at him closely, saw that tiny beads of sweat had gathered on Hale’s forehead.