“I do!” she declared brazenly. “She hates us all.”
“As far as that goes,” smiled Vance, “I haven’t noticed a superabundance of love and affection in any of the Greene family.” His tone was without offense. “And do you base your accusation on anything specific, Miss Greene?”
“Isn’t it specific enough that she wants us all out of the way, that she thinks she would have everything—ease, luxury, freedom—if there wasn’t any one else to inherit the Greene money?”
“Hardly specific enough to warrant a direct accusation of so heinous a character.—And by the by, Miss Greene, just how would you explain the method of the crime if called as a witness in a court of law? You couldn’t altogether ignore the fact that Miss Ada herself was shot in the back, don’t y’ know?”
For the first time the sheer impossibility of the accusation seemed to strike Sibella. She became sullen; and her mouth settled into a contour of angry bafflement.
“As I told you once before, I’m not a policewoman,” she retorted. “Crime isn’t my specialty.”
“Nor logic either apparently.” A whimsical note crept into Vance’s voice. “But perhaps I misinterpret your accusation. Did you mean to imply that Miss Ada shot your sister Julia, and that some one else—party or parties unknown, I believe the phrase is—shot Miss Ada immediately afterward—in a spirit of vengeance, perhaps? A crime à quatre mains, so to speak?”
Sibella’s confusion was obvious, but her stubborn wrath had in no wise abated.
“Well, if that was the way it happened,” she countered malevolently, “it’s a rotten shame they didn’t do the job better.”
“The blunder may at least prove unfortunate for somebody,” suggested Vance pointedly. “Still, I hardly think we can seriously entertain the double-culprit theory. Both of your sisters, d’ ye see, were shot with the same gun—a .32 revolver—within a few minutes of each other. I’m afraid that we’ll have to be content with one guilty person.”