“Only skin deep,” Brady said, unfolding a handkerchief. “Here, hold this against it.”
“By God,” Larry blurted, “if it leaves a scar—”
“That was a lie,” Janet said. “You lied!”
“What?” Larry glared at her.
“She means,” Wolfe put in, “that you lied when you said you neither desired nor intended to marry her. I agree with her that the air was already bad enough in here without that. You fed her passion and her hope. She wanted you, God knows why. When your aunt intervened, she struck. For revenge? Yes. Or saying to your aunt, preparing to say, ‘Let me have him or I’ll ruin you?’ Probably. Or to ruin your aunt and then collect you from the debris? Possibly. Or all three, Miss Nichols?”
Janet, her back to him, still facing Larry, did not speak. I held onto her.
“But,” Wolfe said, “your aunt came to see me, and that frightened her. Also, when she herself came that evening and found that picture here, the picture you had carried in your watch, she was not only frightened but enraged. Being a very sentimental young woman—”
“Good God,” Brady muttered involuntarily. “Sentimental!”
A shudder ran over Janet from top to bottom. I pulled her around by the arm and steered her to the red leather chair and she dropped into it. Wolfe said brusquely:
“Archie, your notebook. No — first the camera—”