Her eyes softened, grew wistful and appealing. "I'm sure you don't. You couldn't. It's all so—so dreadful to think about." There was a little catch in her throat as the voice broke. "Let's talk of something more cheerful. I want to forget it all."
"I'm sure you do. We all want to do that. The surest way to get it out of our minds is to solve the mystery and find out who is guilty. That's why I want you to tell me a few things to clear up my mind."
"But I don't know anything about it—nothing at all. Why should you come to me?"
"When did you last see my uncle alive?"
"What a dreadful question! It was—let me think—in the afternoon—the day before—"
"And you parted from him on the best of terms?"
"Of course."
He leaned toward her ever so little, his eyes level with hers and steadily fastened upon her. "That's the last time you saw him—until you went to his rooms at the Paradox the night he was killed?"
She had lifted her hand to pat into place an escaping tendril of hair. The hand remained lifted. The dark eyes froze with horror. They stared at him, as though held by some dreadful fascination. From her cheeks the color ebbed. Kirby thought she was going to faint.
But she did not. A low moan of despair escaped from the ashen lips.
The lifted arm fell heavily to her lap.