“When did you last see Austin Hale?” he asked.
“Before he left for New York six weeks ago.”
“Did you expect him to return on Tuesday night?”
“No.”
“Was Austin in financial difficulties?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Robert Hale addressed his brother. “How about it, John?”
“I never heard of his having financial difficulties,” the latter replied, his attention partly diverted by Mrs. Hale; she had an annoying habit of biting her nails whenever perturbed in mind, and the gnawing sound, slight as it was, was getting on her brother-in-law’s nerves. She met his glare with a fixed stare, totally unconscious of the cause of his wrath.
“Was Austin in love?” inquired Ferguson, his fountain pen flying over the paper, jotting down questions and answers.
Robert Hale laughed faintly. “Does a kitten play?” he asked. “John, you are better qualified to answer that question than I; Austin was your”—he paused—“stepson.”
“And my adopted son, as well,” John Hale amplified his brother’s statement. “If Austin intended to marry, I was not his confidant, and, therefore, am unable”—his manner grew stiff and formal—“to give you any information on the subject.”