Not a muscle in his face moved, but he stopped short in his tracks. "Eunice dead!" he ejaculated. "When and where?"
"In June two years ago. She was found dead, sitting in the library."
John Thaneford drew a long breath. "I wondered that her letters ceased so suddenly," he said coolly. "But Eunice was always doing something out of the common, and I laid it to some queer slant in her mind. You never can tell what a woman will do or won't do."
The callous selfishness of the man was still rampant, and it disgusted me. Doubtless, he had no idea that I was well aware of the relations that had existed between him and the unfortunate girl. And then, to my astonishment, a new note of softness, of regret even, stole into his voice. "Do you mind opening up the room?" he asked. "So much for remembrance," he added in an undertone that I barely caught.
This time my promise to Betty did occur to my mind, but already the covenant had been broken, and further infraction could not greatly signify.
We walked down the corridor, and I unlocked the door and pushed it open, calling to the house-boy to bring in a lamp.
"So you've cleaned everything out," remarked Thaneford, as he glanced around. "That is, about everything but the big teak desk, the leather screen, and the swivel-chair."
"The desk was too cumbersome for use in the other room," I answered. "As for the chair you see it is riveted down into the floor—not even screwed in the ordinary way. I fancy it would be a job to get it free."
"And no object either. Poor Eunice, you say, died here?"
"Sitting in that very chair."