“Mind? On the contrary. It’s about the only place I feel safe.” She walked to the archway. “If you do find out anything you’ll let me know—won’t you? There’s no use pretending any longer. I’m dreadfully scared.” Then, as if ashamed of her admission, she went quickly down the hall.
Just then Sproot admitted the two finger-print experts—Dubois and Bellamy—and the official photographer. Heath joined them in the hall and took them up-stairs, returning immediately.
“And now what, sir?”
Markham seemed lost in gloomy speculation, and it was Vance who answered the Sergeant’s query.
“I rather think,” he said, “that another verbal bout with the pious Hemming and the taciturn Frau Mannheim might dispose of a loose end or two.”
Hemming was sent for. She came in laboring under intense excitement. Her eyes fairly glittered with the triumph of the prophetess whose auguries have come to pass. But she had no information whatever to impart. She had spent most of the forenoon in the laundry, and had been unaware of the tragedy until Sproot had mentioned it to her shortly before our arrival. She was voluble, however, on the subject of divine punishment, and it was with difficulty that Vance stemmed her oracular stream of words.
Nor could the cook throw any light on Rex’s murder. She had been in the kitchen, she said, the entire morning except for the hour she had gone marketing. She had not heard the shot and, like Hemming, knew of the tragedy only through Sproot. A marked change, however, had come over the woman. When she had entered the drawing-room fright and resentment animated her usually stolid features, and as she sat before us her fingers worked nervously in her lap.
Vance watched her critically during the interview. At the end he asked suddenly:
“Miss Ada has been with you in the kitchen this past half-hour?”
At the mention of Ada’s name her fear was perceptibly intensified. She drew a deep breath.