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this was somebody’s fiftieth birthday—somebody Henry Drew thought highly enough of to honor with a party. Whose birthday was it? Mrs. Drew—do you know?”
“I do not,” said Carlotta Drew. “My husband confided few of his affairs to me.”
“Yes? Well, I guess we can take it for granted that the person in whose honor the party was given was to be among the guests.” Barnes held up the little pack of white cards. “I’ve got here the place cards for the party, which I gathered up from the table.” He began to read. “Mr. Winthrop—you’re not fifty. Miss Tellfair—I don’t need to ask. Doctor Parker—er—how about you?”
“Not guilty,” Parker said. “It’s not my birthday, and Mr. Drew wouldn’t have given me a party if it were.”
Barnes held up another card, and for a long moment gazed at the face of Carlotta Drew. He must have seen the lines
