“You said a brief period,” Donald told Wolfe. “Until tomorrow noon.”
“No.” Wolfe was firm. “I can’t set an hour. But I don’t want to prolong it any more than you do.”
“If necessary,” Mrs. Pitcairn persisted, “I think I could make it more than I said. Much more. I can say definitely that it will be double that.” She was as stubborn as a woman, and she sure was willing to dig into her capital.
“No, madam. I told Mr. Goodwin this evening that my mind was dominated by a single purpose, and it is. I did not go home to dinner. I fought my way through a snowstorm, at night, over strange and difficult terrain. I entered by force, supported by Mr. Goodwin’s gun. Now I’m going to stay until I’m through, or — you know the alternative.”
Mrs. Pitcairn looked at her husband and son and daughter. “I tried,” she said quietly.
Joseph G. sat down for the first time and fastened his eyes on Wolfe’s face.
“Inquire,” he said harshly.
“Good.” Wolfe heaved a deep sigh. “Please get Mr. and Mrs. Imbrie. I’ll need all of you.”
IX
For the last several minutes, since it had become evident that we were going to be invited to spend the night, I had had a new worry. The plan was that as soon as possible after we had got the halter on them Wolfe would get them all into the kitchen, to show him where Mrs. Imbrie had kept her box of morphine pills, and it seemed to me that the appearance of Mrs. Pitcairn had turned that from a chore into a real problem. How could he expect a woman with a bum back to get up from a chair and go to the kitchen with him just to point to a spot on a shelf, when three other people were available, all perfectly capable of pointing?