CHAPTER XIX
BACK TO BELLWOOD
THE inability of Margery Fleming to tell who had chloroformed her, and Mrs. Butler’s white face and brooding eyes made a very respectable mystery out of the affair. Only Fred, Edith and I came down to breakfast that morning. Fred’s expression was half amused, half puzzled. Edith fluttered uneasily over the coffee machine, her cheeks as red as the bow of ribbon at her throat. I was preoccupied, and, like Fred, I propped the morning paper in front of me and proceeded to think in its shelter.
“Did you find anything, Fred?” Edith asked. Fred did not reply, so she repeated the question with some emphasis.
“Eh—what?” Fred inquired, peering around the corner of the paper.
“Did—you—find—any—clue?”
“Yes, dear—that is, no. Nothing to amount to anything. Upon my
