The Silent Hour by Elisabeth Grace Foley

of coffee, let the
cup down on the table with a dull clank and walked away. He flung a
coin over the counter in payment for his meal and went out, leaving
the sheriff frustrated, suspicious and glowering behind him.
     
    * * *
     
    That afternoon Mrs. Meade had another caller.
Randall Morris, who had been made free of the boarding-house in
times past, let himself in without encountering Mrs. Henney and
went into the parlor, where Mrs. Meade had been sitting
abstractedly counting over the same row of stitches in her knitting
and occasionally putting it down to think with a frown.
    She laid it down with some relief at his
appearance and greeted him with pleasure. “Randall! How good to see
you. And how are Charity and the baby?”
    For five minutes the conversation was purely
domestic, and then Randall said, nodding toward the knitting on the
sofa, “What seems to be the trouble?”
    “I don’t know exactly what the trouble is,”
said Mrs. Meade, picking up the knitting-needles with a slight
sigh. “I have been thinking. Thinking of—I was convinced within
myself that no one could commit a murder out of pity or kindness,
but now I am forced to consider whether they could by reason of an
ardent—a most ardent love?”
    “That’s a—a pretty strong reason,” admitted
Randall slowly. “But as to whether they’d actually do it—”
    “Yes,” said Mrs. Meade, giving her knitting a
sharp little flap. “ That is the question.”
    “It’s the Cambert murder, isn’t it?” said
Randall. “To tell you the truth, that’s why I came to see you, Mrs.
Meade. I’ve been bothered a lot by it myself. Jim’s a friend of
mine, you know, and I just don’t see how he could shoot his
grandfather in cold blood.”
    “It appears to be hot blood that is in
question,” said Mrs. Meade.
    “Jim has that, I’ll admit,” said Randall,
smiling a little ruefully. “But it’s still got me baffled. I knew
you’d have an opinion, though, and I was curious to know what it
was.”
    Mrs. Meade’s eyes twinkled, but she pretended
to speak seriously. “My dear Randall, why should you think I would
be more interested in this murder than anyone else?”
    The young man grinned. “Mrs. Meade, don’t be
a humbug. I owe exactly one beloved wife and one son and heir to
your devastating common sense, and I could name a few other people
who’d say similarly. You know you’ve always got an opinion when it
comes to things like this.”
    “Dear me, by those calculations your debt to
me can only multiply,” said Mrs. Meade. “Nonsense. But you’re quite
right. I should never like to be called a busybody, but it has
always been my fortune—or my misfortune, depending on which way you
look at it—to be concerned with other people’s problems. I am troubled over this murder. But at present I am at a loss
to see what help anyone could possibly offer.”
    “Did you know Major Cambert?” said
Randall.
    “I was acquainted with him, yes, but I hadn’t
seen him in some time.”
    “I’ve been out there pretty often,” said
Randall. “I sold them some horses when they first set up there, and
Jim and I got to be good friends. I like him a lot—and the Major
wasn’t a bad sort, even if he was as close as the dickens. Wonder
if it came of all those years living on Army pay.”
    “Heavens, no. People who live on government
pay are never careful with money,” said Mrs. Meade with a
decision that convulsed her listener. “Major Cambert was simply a
suspicious man—and never shy of making his suspicions known. I’ll
never understand how Jim grew up to have such nice manners, living
with him,” she added irrelevantly.
    “It’s been rough on him, I’ll bet,” said
Randall. “I haven’t seen him to talk to since it happened. He seems
to be keeping out of the way of anyone he knows, and I can’t say I
blame him. And then he even had to spend a night in jail on top of
it, thanks to that no-good Old Ted.”
    “What’s that?” said