(Monday, April 11; 2 p. m.)
It was shortly after two o’clock when we reached the Dillard house. Pyne answered our ring; and if our visit caused him any surprise he succeeded admirably in hiding it. In the look he gave Heath, however, I detected a certain uneasiness; but when he spoke his voice had the flat, unctuous quality of the well-trained servant.
“Mr. Arnesson has not returned from the university,” he informed us.
“Mind-reading, I see,” said Vance, “is not your forte, Pyne. We called to see you and Professor Dillard.”
The man looked ill at ease; but before he could answer Miss Dillard appeared in the archway of the drawing-room.
“I thought I recognized your voice, Mr. Vance.” She included us all in a smile of wistful welcome. “Please come in. . . . Lady Mae dropped in for a few minutes,—we’re going riding together this afternoon,” she explained, as we entered the room.
Mrs. Drukker stood by the centre-table, one bony hand on the back of the chair from which she had evidently just risen. There was fear in her eyes as she stared at us unblinkingly; and her lean features seemed almost contorted. She made no effort to speak, but stood rigidly as if waiting for some dread pronouncement, like a convicted prisoner at the bar about to receive sentence.
Belle Dillard’s pleasant voice relieved the tensity of the situation.
“I’ll run up and tell uncle you’re here.”
She had no sooner quitted the room than Mrs. Drukker leaned over the table and said to Markham in a sepulchral, awe-stricken whisper: “I know why you’ve come! It’s about that fine young man who was shot in the park this morning.”