“You may close the door, Peterson,” said Clayton, waving the detective to a chair.
Peterson withdrew and the door closed upon his red face and rigid figure.
“Don’t rise, Clayton,” said Nick, while he shook hands with him. “You look pale this evening, more pale than when I saw you on the night of the crime. I venture to say you have lost thirty pounds since I lunched with you something like four months ago.”
“All of that, Nick,” said Clayton, smiling a bit wearily. “I have lost all I took on during the six months following my marriage. I seem to be slipping downhill on greased rollers. What more have you learned about this terrible business?”
“Nothing worthy of mention,” Nick replied. “I still am much in the dark. Peterson tells me there is no improvement in your mother’s condition.”
“No, none whatever,” Clayton said sadly. “She lies hour after hour like a woman in a trance. We have tried in vain to arouse her, or to evoke some sign of recognition. She——”
“We will talk of her a little later,” Nick interposed. “Tell me, instead, Clayton, how long you have been on the down grade. When did you first detect this change in your health?”
“About three months ago, Nick, as near as I can tell.”
“Did you consult a physician at that time?[Pg 15]”
“Yes. I have tried several since then, moreover, but without deriving any benefit. I have been running down and losing flesh in spite of all they can do.”