“Waring,” Dr. Stone said slowly, “you checked yourself too late. So Anthony forgot—and the manuscript is stolen. That unfinished sentence could convict you.”
“Of what?” Waring snapped.
“Of murder. The man who stole that manuscript killed Anthony Fitch.”
Lady whimpered uneasily, and, in the hard silence, the sound was like the wail of a ghost. Joe’s temples throbbed, and he was conscious of Lawton watching his uncle in a sort of bleak dread. Slowly he came to the realization that the blind man, sitting there in a handicap of darkness was the dominating figure in the room.
Softly, almost soundlessly, a man wearing an apron appeared from the kitchen. This, the boy guessed, was Cagge.
“I’ve made coffee,” the servant announced in a nasal monotone. “Anybody want some?”
Freeman’s hand came away from the piano. “What’s the matter with the bacon and eggs?”
Lawton gave a grunt of distaste. “Ugh! Who could eat food now?”
“Is Anthony’s death supposed to fill any of us with sorrow?” Freeman asked blandly.
“Fry mine on both sides,” said Otis King. He stretched his legs and smoothed his trousers. “Cagge, you were with Anthony how long?”