Then, at the other end of the state, the professor of Moral Science at a
small theological seminary caught his wife in _flagrante delicto_ with
one of the fourth-year students and opened fire upon them, at a range of
ten feet, with a 12-gauge pump-gun. The Rosemont Bayonet Murder, already
pretty well withered on the vine, passed quietly into limbo.
* * * * *
Summer, almost a month before its official opening, was already a _fait
accompli_. The trees were in full leaf and invaded by nesting birds, the
air was fragrant with flower scents, and the mercury column of the
thermometer was stretching itself up toward the ninety mark.
They were all outside, where the long shadow of the Fleming house
fell across the lawn and driveway, gathered about the five parked cars.
The new Fleming butler, a short and somewhat globular Negro with a
gingerbread-crust complexion and an air of affable dignity, was helping
Pierre Jarrett and Karen Lawrence put a couple of cartons and a tall
peach-basket into Pierre's Plymouth. Colin MacBride, a streamer of
pipe-smoke floating back over his shoulder, was peering into his
luggage-compartment to check the stowage of his own cargo, while his
twelve-year-old son, Malcolm, another black Highlander like his
father, was helping Philip Cabot carry a big laundry hamper full of
newspaper-wrapped pistols to his Cadillac.
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