"The rich ought to be good," he said wistfully. "They have so
much that is beautiful, and beauty is ennobling. And yet--while
I ought to say nothing but good of the dead--Mr. Armstrong saw
nothing of this fair prospect. To him these trees and lawns were
not the work of God. They were property, at so much an acre. He
loved money, Miss Innes. He offered up everything to his golden
calf. Not power, not ambition, was his fetish: it was money."
Then he dropped his pulpit manner, and, turning to me with his
engaging smile: "In spite of all this luxury," he said, "the
country people here have a saying that Mr. Paul Armstrong could
sit on a dollar and see all around it. Unlike the summer people,
he gave neither to the poor nor to the church. He loved money
for its own sake."
"And there are no pockets in shrouds!" I said cynically.
I sent him home in the car, with a bunch of hot-house roses for
his wife, and he was quite overwhelmed. As for me, I had a
generous glow that was cheap at the price of a church
carpet. I received less gratification--and less gratitude--when
I presented the new silver communion set to St. Barnabas.
I had a great many things to think about in those days. I made
out a list of questions and possible answers, but I seemed only
to be working around in a circle. I always ended where I began.
The list was something like this:
Who had entered the house the night before the murder?
Thomas claimed it was Mr.
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