Insensibly, instinctively, we drew the tiniest bit closer to one another. Spiritually, we huddled. We were all little men, badly frightened, in the great House where murder stalked invisible.
If this is “the beginning of the end,” what will the end itself be like?
XXIII.
Miss Lebetwood and a Campstool
October 9. Noon.
“No,” said Miss Lebetwood, “I certainly didn’t do what he wanted me to. What good would that have been?”
Salt’s brow was very grave, but his eyes were narrowly upon her. “You watched him, you say?”
“Yes, as long as he was in sight from the edge of the strawberry trees.”
“What happened?”
She bit her lip. “Nothing that will really help you.”