“Joe called in the police,” John Hale continued. “And to-day we are no nearer detecting the criminal or discovering the motive for the crime than we were at that hour.”
“Give us a chance, Mr. Hale,” protested Ferguson. “This is the first time I’ve seen you,” turning to the elder brother. “There’s some information you must give, if Mr. John Hale won’t.”
“Play fair, Ferguson,” objected John Hale. “I have never refused——”
“Be quiet, John.” Robert Hale spoke with authority. “As the head of the house I will attend to this investigation.”
He was interrupted by a slight scream from the hall. The next instant the portières were pulled aside and Mrs. Hale hurried toward him.
“Robert, you are really downstairs—and Anna did not lie,” she commenced incoherently. “Do you not know that you are jeopardizing——”
“Quiet, Agatha”—Robert Hale let his wife clasp his hand in both of hers, and Detective Ferguson, watching the scene with interest, was again impressed with the quality of his voice. Rich in tone, softly modulated, it almost caressed the ear, and Hale’s faultless pronunciation added to the soothing effect. “Where is Judith?”
“Taking off her wraps. She will be here shortly.” Mrs. Hale seldom completed her sentences when excited. “We have just returned from—”
“I can guess”—Hale eyed her mourning and her reddened eyelids. “John has told me of Austin’s death.” He patted her hand gently, sympathetically; then before she could speak, addressed the detective. “You said you wished to question me; kindly do so.”
Ferguson pushed forward a chair for Mrs. Hale near her husband and, drawing out his notebook, chose a seat near the table.