Part 27 (2/2)
”You see, Mr. Crown, you're wasting your time shouting at me, bullying me, accusing me of protecting the murderer of my own daughter.”
There was a new note in her voice, a hint, ever so slight, of a willingness to be friendly. He was not insensible to it. Hearing it, he put himself on guard, wondering what it portended.
”I didn't say that,” he contradicted, far from graciousness. ”I said you knew a whole lot more about the murder than you'd tell--tell me anyway.”
”But why should I want to conceal anything that might bring the man to justice?”
”Blessed if I know!” he conceded, not without signs of irritation.
So far as he could see, not a feature of her face changed. The lifted eyebrows were still high upon her forehead, interrogative and mocking; the restless, gleaming eyes still drilled into various parts of his person and attire; the thin lips continued their moving pictures of contempt. And yet, he saw, too, that she presented to him now another countenance.
The change was no more than a shadow; and the shadow was so light that he could not be sure of its meaning. He thought it was friendliness, but that opinion was dulled by recurrence of his admiration of her ”smartness.” He feared some imposition.
”You've adopted Mr. Hastings' absurd theory,” she said, as if she wondered. ”You've subscribed to it without question.”
”What theory?”
”That I know who the guilty man is.”
”Well?” He was still on guard.
”It surprises me--that's all--a man of your intellect, your originality.”
She sighed, marvelling at this addition to life's conundrums.
”Why?” he asked, bluntly.
”I should never have thought you'd put yourself in that position before the public. I mean, letting him lead you around by the nose--figuratively.”
Mr. Crown started forward in his chair, eyes popped. He was indignant and surprised.
”Is that what they're saying?” he demanded.
”Naturally,” she said, and with the one word laid it down as an impossibility that ”they” could have said anything else. ”That's what the reporters tell me.”
”Well, I'll be--dog-goned!” The knuckle-like chin dropped. ”They're saying that, are they?”
Disturbed as he was, he noticed that she regarded him with apparently genuine interest--that, perhaps, she added to her interest a regret that he had displayed no originality in the investigation, a man of his intellect!
”They couldn't understand why you were playing Hastings' game,” she proceeded, ”playing it to his smallest instructions.”
”Hastings' game! What the thunder are they talking about? What do they mean, his game?”
”His desire to keep suspicion away from the Sloanes and Mr. Webster.
That's what they hired him for--isn't it?”
”I guess it is--by gravy!” Mr. Crown's long-drawn sigh was distinctly tremulous.
<script>