Again she nodded, but immediately afterward she shot Vance a combative inquisitive glance.
“He sometimes joins me,” she hastened to explain. “He feels sorry for me, and he admires Adolph; he thinks he’s a great genius. And he is a genius! He’d be a great man—as great as Professor Dillard—if it hadn’t been for his illness. . . . And it was all my fault. I let him fall when he was a baby. . . .” A dry sob shook her emaciated body, and her fingers worked spasmodically.
After a moment Vance asked: “What did you and Professor Dillard talk about in the garden yesterday?”
A sudden wiliness crept into the woman’s manner.
“About Adolph mostly,” she said, with a too obvious attempt at unconcern.
“Did you see any one else in the yard or on the archery range?” Vance’s indolent eyes were on the woman.
“No!” Again a sense of fear pervaded her. “But somebody else was there, wasn’t there?—somebody who didn’t wish to be seen.” She nodded her head eagerly. “Yes! Some one else was there—and they thought I saw them. . . . But I didn’t! Oh, merciful God, I didn’t! . . .” She covered her face with her hands, and her body shook convulsively. “If only I had seen them! If only I knew! But it wasn’t Adolph—it wasn’t my little boy. He was asleep—thank God, he was asleep!”
Vance went close to the woman.
“Why do you thank God that it wasn’t your son?” he asked gently.
She looked up with some amazement.