I was tired of discussing the matter.
“He will not know a thing about what has happened there,” I interrupted very rudely and not at all in accordance with professional etiquette. “We’ve got to use the room sometime. Why not now?”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Hajek, surveying me absently. “Yes, I suppose so. Yes. Did you say he comes this afternoon?”
“About six o’clock,” said Miss Jones, and with a nod he swung toward the inner office.
Thinking that I must see that Room 18 was in order, I hurried toward the south wing. The room had not been cleaned beyond a brief straightening up, so I sent two nurses to clean it and went along myself to superintend the affair.
It was not pleasant to open that door, but I had opened it under still less agreeable circumstances. The room was very gloomy and cold with dismal shadows on the white walls, and the window panes so beaded with moisture that the gray light from outside filtered but faintly into the place. I relented so far as to turn on the electric light, which threw the whole room into sharp relief, and the two girls set to work.
The air was stale, so I crossed to the low window near the porch, unlocked the catch and flung it wide, letting in the damp mist. I stood there, thinking of the intruder of the previous night. Who had been in this room? What had been his purpose? What would O’Leary say when I told him of it? Had the visitor escaped by this window? I looked at the wide sill. There was a screen there, to be sure, but it worked on a spring catch and could easily be opened from either side, this to facilitate the shaking of rugs and dusters and the adjusting of awnings. Idly I pushed back the screen, running my finger along the sill. I was about to close it again when a faint reflection of light from something in the corner of the sill caught my eye. I leaned toward that corner to look more closely, reached out and slowly turned the tiny flat thing over with my fingernail.
It was a gold sequin!
I should never have seen it save for that minute reflection of light, for the upper surface was all tarnished and stained, though the under side was still bright. A wisp of frayed green thread still clung to the small hole for a needle at the top of the flimsy bit of metal.
I needed no one to tell me from where the thing had come; the night of June seventh Corole Letheny had worn a dress of gold sequins cunningly arranged over net with flashes of green here and there.
And it did not seem probable to me that she had worn the gown since that night.
By the time I had digested this amazing fact the girls, to whom fear seemed to lend astonishing speed, had got the room cleaned.
“A patient is coming,” I explained to them. “That is all now.” They were glad to be dismissed and hurried away.
I did not remain alone in that room. Strolling down the corridor, the tiny sequin still in my hand, it occurred to me that it would be a fine thing to be able to tell Lance O’Leary, when I gave him the sequin, whether or not Corole had worn her gold gown since the night of her dinner party. Huldah would know, and somehow in the face of this last development, I had no scruples as to inquiring of Huldah concerning the affairs of her mistress.
It was a matter of only a few moments until I was on my way.
The path through the orchard squdged wetly under my feet; the trees dripped steadily on my starched, white cap, and the mist lay so heavy and close that I could not see more than ten or fifteen feet ahead of me. The shrubs massed around the trees were hazy, shadowy outlines, and the raw air fairly hurt my throat.
I walked on slowly through the wet alfalfa field, passed the clump of pines that made a black blot amidst the fog, and through the gate. The porch of the Letheny cottage still looked dreary and Huldah had not swept it that day.
Corole came to the door.
“Oh,” she said unenthusiastically. “Oh, hello, Sarah. Come in. I was boring myself over a book.” She threw my cape on a chair and I followed her into the study.
“You decided not to go to New Orleans, then, with the—that is, for the funeral?”
“There was no need to.” Her face darkened. “He has relatives there who—never cared for me.”
“Mr. Jackson’s body was sent East,” I said. We lapsed into silence. Presently Corole stirred.
“I’d give you tea but Huldah is in bed with a headache. She went to sleep right after lunch but I suppose is awake by now. I told her not to worry about dinner; I’ll drive in to the Brevair. I’ve been wanting to get out, anyhow, and they say there’s a wonderful new chef there.”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, Corole, don’t make yourself conspicuous. There’s that matter of the revolver at the inquest, you know.”
Corole glanced curiously at me and laughed.
“But my dear, I don’t know a thing about that revolver getting over to St. Ann’s. And I do happen to know that there are other, far more intriguing things, that might bear a little investigation.” She smoothed the flat wave in her hair gently. “A little investigation, at least,” she murmured as if amused, but her expression was not pleasant. Indeed a look in her flat, yellow eyes reminded me that this woman had lived in strange places, had seen strange things, was likely familiar with dark secrets and black rites and primitive passions—product of the twentieth century though she seemed, with her laces and jewels and sophisticated eyebrows. Jungle nights,
