“Was I? Well, maybe I was. It’s a wonder, though, that some one didn’t leave my door open just so I’d be disturbed.”
“And you know no one who would have any reason to kill your son?”
“How should I know? Nobody tells me anything. I’m a poor neglected, lonely old cripple. . . .”
“Well, we won’t bother you any further, Mrs. Greene.” Markham’s tone held something both of sympathy and consternation.
As we descended the stairs the nurse reopened the door we had just closed after us, and left it ajar, no doubt in response to an order from her patient.
“Not at all a nice old lady,” chuckled Vance, as we entered the drawing-room. “For a moment, Markham, I thought you were going to box her ears.”
“I admit I felt like it. And yet I couldn’t help pitying her. However, such utter self-concentration as hers saves one a lot of mental anguish. She seems to regard this whole damnable business as a plot to upset her.”
Sproot appeared obsequiously at the door.
“May I bring you gentlemen some coffee?” No emotion of any kind showed on his graven wrinkled face. The events of the past few days seemed not to have affected him in any degree.
“No, we don’t want coffee, Sproot,” Markham told him brusquely. “But please be good enough to ask Miss Sibella if she will come here.”