Margaret laughed. “That’s got you, Jack. You shouldn’t funk.”
Anthony said: “Let us leave ferret-face for the moment. Was there no one else you thought behaved suspicious-like?”
Margaret fingered the notebook in her lap. Hastings looked at her.
“You shouldn’t funk, Maggie,” he said.
“Pig!” said Margaret. “And don’t call me Maggie! It’s disgusting!”
“What is all this, my children?” Anthony asked.
Margaret looked up at him. “It’s only that I told this person that Miss Hoode made me uncomfortable.”
“You’ve watered it down a good bit,” Hastings laughed.
“Well, all I meant was that she seemed so contradictory. Not in what she said, you know, but in the way she looked and—and behaved. It was funny, that feeling I had. At first I thought she wasn’t suffering over her brother’s death, but was just worn out with fear and with trying to—to hide something. And then after that I began to think she was sorry after all, and that all the queer things about her were due to grief. And then after that again I sort of half went back to my first ideas. That’s all. You must think I’m mad, Mr. Gethryn.”
“I think,” said Anthony, “that you’re a remarkable young woman. You ought to set up in the street of Baker or Harley, or both.” His tone was more serious than his words; Margaret blushed.