"And unfortunately succeeding," added Markham coldly.
"Well, that can't be helped." She suddenly became bitter. "It's their punishment for the way they've treated their poor old mother, lying here for ten long years, hopelessly paralyzed. And do you think they try to make it easy for me? No! Here I must stay, day after day, suffering agonies with my spine; and they never give me a thought." A sly look came into her fierce old eyes. "But they think about me sometimes. Oh, yes! They think how nice it would be if I were out of the way. Then they'd get all my money. . . ."
"I understand, madam," Markham put in abruptly, "that you were asleep last night at the time your son met his death."
"Was I? Well, maybe I was. It's a wonder, though, that some one didn't leave my door open just so I'd be disturbed."
"And you know no one who would have any reason to kill your son?"
"How should I know? Nobody tells me anything. I'm a poor neglected, lonely old cripple. . . ."
"Well, we won't bother you any further, Mrs. Greene." Markham's tone held something both of sympathy and consternation.
As we descended the stairs the nurse reopened the door we had just closed after us, and left it ajar, no doubt in response to an order from her patient.
"Not at all a nice old lady," chuckled Vance, as we entered the drawing-room. "For a moment, Markham, I thought you were going to box her ears."
