thread Garth stumbled noisily against a chair, and, as if in response, while he detached the thread from the carpet, a gentle knocking reached him from the bedroom door.
A little ashamed of his racket, he thrust the thread in his pocket, arose, and opened the door. A tall man with iron-gray hair entered, closing the door gently behind him. His tone was repressed, but Garth did not miss its annoyance.
"Do you want to kill that woman?"
"I see. The chair," Garth said.
"Every sound from this room," the man explained, "must be torture to her. I suppose you policemen think all this fuss and feathers necessary. You'd do better to get after Randall."
Garth curbed his own irritation.
"When do you think we'll be able to question her?"
"God knows! If this keeps up. She's in a bad way. Do you suppose I'd waste my time here otherwise. I tell you quiet is essential."
Garth rested his hands against the table. The knotted veins testified to his anxiety, but his tone was casual.
"By the way, doctor, since you're Mrs. Randall's cousin, you must have known the doctor pretty well."
"Yes, yes, very well."
"Did you ever notice—was he in the habit of wearing a flower in his button-hole?"
The other glanced at him suspiciously.
"What are you driving at?"
