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CHAPTER XVII. THE STORY OF THE NIGHT. Here Jen looked suddenly at Etwald, and recalled the dinner at which the doctor had read the dead man's hand. Then he had prophesied ill of Maurice--an ill which it would seem had been fulfilled. Now, with equal curtness, he was prognosticating evil for Isabella. Vexed at such croakings, Jen spoke abruptly: So Elinor went into the sitting-room where the telephone was, and in the intervals of their rather forced conversation, they could hear scraps of her kind questions and gentle answers. When she returned to the studio, her face was glowing..
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"I have not set eyes on it since that night you showed it to me," declared Etwald, coolly. "You refused to sell it to me, so of course I gave up all idea of possessing it. All the same," finished he, politely, "I am sorry that it is lost." "Doubtless. I hardly anticipated an easy task when I undertook to learn who killed my dear lad. Besides, David will help me." "No," said Battersea again. "The poison is dried up." "Do you mean Elizabeth March, who got the Tassel prize this year?" asked Patricia in surprise. "Why, I saw her last week at the exhibition and she was awfully prim looking.".
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