Liddy was aggrieved. She was about to reply when I scooped up the
pieces and left the conservatory.
"Now then," I said, when we got outside, "will you tell me why you
choose to take Alex into your confidence? He's no fool. Do you
suppose he thinks any one in this house is going to play bridge
to-night at nine o'clock, by appointment! I suppose you have shown it
in the kitchen, and instead of my being able to slip down to the bridge
to-night quietly, and see who is there, the whole household will be
going in a procession."
"Nobody knows it," Liddy said humbly. "I found it in the basket in
Miss Gertrude's dressing-room. Look at the back of the sheet." I
turned over some of the scraps, and, sure enough, it was a blank
deposit slip from the Traders' Bank. So Gertrude was going to meet
Jack Bailey that night by the bridge! And I had thought he was ill!
It hardly seemed like the action of an innocent man--this avoidance of
daylight, and of his fiancee's people. I decided to make certain,
however, by going to the bridge that night.
After luncheon Mr. Jamieson suggested that I go with him to Richfield,
and I consented.
"I am inclined to place more faith in Doctor Stewart's story," he said,
"since I found that scrap in old Thomas' pocket. It bears out the
statement that the woman with the child, and the woman who quarreled
with Armstrong, are the same. It looks as if Thomas had stumbled on to
some affair which was more or less discreditable to the dead man, and,
with a certain loyalty to the family, had kept it to himself. Then,
you see, your story about the woman at the card-room window begins to
mean something. It is the nearest approach to anything tangible that
we have had yet."
Warner took us to Richfield in the car. It was about twenty-five miles
by railroad, but by taking a series of atrociously rough short cuts we
got there very quickly. It was a pretty little town, on the river, and
back on the hill I could see the Mortons' big country house, where
Halsey and Gertrude had been staying until the night of the murder.
Elm Street was almost the only street, and number fourteen was easily
found. It was a small white house, dilapidated without having gained
anything picturesque, with a low window and a porch only a foot or so
above the bit of a lawn. There was a baby-carriage in the path, and
from a swing at the side came the sound of conflict. Three small
children were disputing vociferously, and a faded young woman with a
kindly face was trying to hush the clamor. When she saw us she untied
her gingham apron and came around to the porch.