“Thanks, no, I’ve had breakfast.”
Janet Henry was trembling. Excitement had drained her skin of color, had darkened her eyes, giving her the appearance of one drugged. “We have something to tell you, Father,” she said in a strained uneven voice, “something that–” She turned abruptly to Ned Beaumont. “Tell him! Tell him!”
Ned Beaumont glanced obliquely at her, drawing his brows together, then looked directly at her father. The Senator had remained standing by his place at the table. Ned Beaumont said: “What we’ve got is pretty strong evidence–including a confession–that Paul Madvig killed your son.”
The Senator’s eyes became narrower and he pot a hand flat on the table in front of him. “What is this pretty strong evidence?” he asked.
“Well, sir, the chief thing is the confession, of course. He says your son ran out after him that night and tried to hit him with a rough brown walking-stick and that in taking the stick away from your son he accidentally struck him with it. He says he took the stick away and burned it, but your daughter”–he made a little bow at Janet Henry–“says it’s still here.”
“It is,” she said. “It’s the one Major Sawbridge brought you.”
The Senator’s face was pale as marble and as firm. “Proceed,” he said.
Ned Beaumont made a small gesture with one hand. “Well, sir, that would blow up his story about its being an accident or self-defense–your son’s not having the stick.” He moved his shoulders a little. “I told Farr this yesterday. He’s apparently afraid to take many chances–you know what he is–but I don’t see how he can keep from picking Paul up today.”
Janet Henry frowned at Ned Beaumont, obviously perplexed by something, started to speak, but pressed her lips together instead.
Senator Henry touched his lips with the napkin he held in his left hand, dropped the napkin on the table, and asked: “Is there–ah–any other evidence?”
Ned Beaumont’s reply was another question carelessly uttered: “Isn’t that enough?”
“But there is still more, isn’t there?” Janet demanded.
“Stuff to back this up,” Ned Beaumont said depreciatively. He addressed the Senator: “I can give you more details, but you’ve got the main story now. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
“Quite enough,” the Senator said. He put a hand to his forehead. “I cannot believe it, yet it is so. If you’ll excuse me for a moment and”–to his daughter–“you too, my dear, I should like to be alone, to think, to adjust myself to– No, no, stay here. I should like to go to my room.” He bowed gracefully. “Please remain, Mr. Beaumont. I shall not be long– merely a moment to–to adjust myself to the knowledge that this man with whom I’ve worked shoulder to shoulder is my son’s murderer.”
He bowed again and went out, carrying himself rigidly erect.
Ned Beaumont put a hand on Janet Henry’s wrist and asked in a low tense voice: “Look here, is he likely to fly off the handle?”
She looked at him, startled.
“Is he likely to go dashing off hunting for Paul?” he explained. “We don’t want that. There’s no telling what would happen.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
He grimaced impatiently. “We can’t let him do it. Can’t we go somewhere near the front door so we can stop him if he tries it?”
“Yes.” She was frightened.
She led him to the front of the house, into a small room that was dim behind heavily curtained windows. Its door was within a few feet of the street-door. They stood close together in the dim room, close to the door that stood some six inches ajar. Both of them were trembling. Janet Henry tried to whisper to Ned Beaumont, but he sh-h-hed her into silence.
They were not there long before soft footfalls sounded on the hall-carpet and Senator Henry, wearing hat and overcoat, hurried towards the street-door.
Ned Beaumont stepped out and said: “Wait, Senator Henry.”
The Senator turned. His face was hard and cold, his eyes imperious. “You will please excuse me,” he said. “I must go out.”
“That’s no good,” Ned Beaumont said. He went up close to the Senator. “Just more trouble.”