All these things Driscoll studied, for his method was judging from the manners of individuals, whereas, Shane gathered his conclusions from their definite statements. And, having listened to Dr. Crowell’s account, Shane turned to Eunice and said bluntly, “You and your husband good friends?” Eunice gasped. Then, after one scathing glance, she deliberately turned back to the window, and neglected to answer. “That won’t do, ma’am,” said Shane, in his heavy voice, which was coarse and uncultured but not intentionally rude. “I’m here to ask questions and you people have got to answer ‘em. Mebbe I can put it different. Was you and Mr. Embury on good terms?” “Certainly.” The word was forced from Eunice’s scornful lips, and accompanied by an icy glance meant to freeze the detective, but which utterly failed. “No rows or disagreements, eh?” Shane’s smile was unbearable, and Eunice turned and faced him like an angry thing at bay. “I forbid you to speak to me,” she said, and looked at Shane as if he were some miserable, crawling reptile. “Mason, will you answer this man for me?” “No, no, lady,” Shane seemed to humor her. “I must get your own word for it. Don’t you want me to find out who killed your husband? Don’t you want the truth known? Are you afraid to have it told? Hey?” Shane’s secret theory was that of a sort of third degree applied at the very beginning often scared people into a quick confession of the truth and saved time in the long run. Driscoll knew of this and did not approve. “Let up, Shane,” he muttered; “this is no time for such talk. You don’t know anything yet.” “Go ahead, you,” returned Shane, not unwillingly, and Driscoll did. “Of course we must ask questions, Mrs. Embury,” he said, and his politeness gained him a hearing from Eunice. She looked at him with, at least, toleration, as he began to question her. “When did you last see Mr. Embury alive, ma’am?” “Last night,” replied Eunice, “about midnight, when we retired.” “He was in his usual health and spirits?” “Yes.” “You have two bedrooms?” “Yes.” “Door between?” “Yes.” “Open or shut--after you said good-night to Mr. Embury?” “Closed.” “Locked?” “No.” “Who shut it.” “Mr. Embury.” “Bang it?” “Sir?” “Did he bang it shut? Slam it?” “Mr. Embury was a gentleman.” “Yes, I know. Did he slam that door?” “N--, no.” “He did,” and Driscoll nodded his head, as if not minding Eunice’s stammered denial, but not believing it, either. “Now, as he closed that door with a bang, ma’am, I gather that you two had a--well, say, a little tiff--a quarrel. Might as well own up, ma’am,--it’ll come out, and it’s better you should tell me the truth.” “I am not accustomed to telling anything else!” Eunice declared, holding herself together with a very evident effort. “Mr. Embury and I had a slight difference of opinion, but not enough to call a quarrel.” “What about?” broke in Shane, who had been listening intently.