“Won’t you sit down?”
“I prefer to stand, thank you.”
“Just as you wish. You were with Mrs. Endicott, weren’t you, when it happened?”
“Yes.”
Lieutenant Valcour admired the accomplished ease with which the word had so unhesitatingly been brought out; but then most women, in his estimation, were natural-born liars. The art formed for him one of their greatest charms.
“You were sitting down beside the bed?” he went on.
“Yes. Reading.”
Splendid—splendid—she was a Bernhardt—a Duse.
“And Miss Vickers?”
“She was down in the kitchen making some coffee.”
“Did the shooting upset you, Miss Roberts?”
“I’m naturally nervous. The sound of firing has always disturbed me terribly.” Then she flung at him abruptly, “My brother was killed in the war.”
Lieutenant Valcour both looked and felt genuinely consoling. He also felt a selfish measure of irritation. The statement was such a perfect period mark. When a young woman, no matter how great a criminal, potentially, announces flatly that her brother has been killed during the war, one can’t ride over the fact roughshod.
“Was there anyone whom you loved killed in the war, Lieutenant?”