There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly
indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that
Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the
tragedy.
I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in
a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he
know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be
unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some
secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would
go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn
him that he was already a marked man.
But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I
watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful,
composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles
at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very
beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be
sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly
opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great
strength of her personality was dominating us all.
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