busy making frequently revised lists of the beneficiaries.
It was a troublesome process, for no sooner did Marcia Selden decide on a gift, than immediately the thing took on a new value in her eyes, and she wanted to keep it for herself.
Barham, discovering all this, thanked his lucky stars that he had chanced to provide her with such an absorbing occupation, as it left him more time to himself—more time to think.
After hearing of Rosamond Sayre’s call on Madeleine the night of the masquerade, he determined to see her, for there might be some bit of information to be gleaned from her.
The appointment to meet the detective at Nelson’s was not until four o’clock, so he telephoned Rosamond to ask for an interview before that.
She graciously consented to see him, which surprised him a little, as her note to him had been really a formal expression of sympathy.
As he neared her house, however, he found himself dreading the call he had come to make.
Yet, when they met, Rosamond’s manner put him quite at his ease, and he was glad he had come.
“You dear man,” she said, holding out both hands. “I’m glad to see you—do sit down. I’ve wanted to tell you in person how sorry I feel for you, and how I wish I could do something to help.”
“No, Rosamond—there’s nothing any one can do to help. I’m grateful for sympathy, of course—but—the truth is, nothing helps. The awfulness of the whole thing is beyond all help. Now, let’s be frank. I’ve come to ask you a straightforward question. You played Bridge a lot with Maddy, didn’t you?”
“All the time, practically.”
