way. I've had quite a good deal of experience, and though I wouldn't take a case officially, I'm sure I could at least discover if your suspicions have any grounds."
"But I haven't any suspicions," said Kitty, agitatedly clasping her little hands against her breast; "I've only a feeling, a deep, positive conviction, that Madeleine did not kill herself, and I'm sure I don't know who did kill her."
Fessenden gave that grave smile of his and only said, "That doesn't sound like much to work upon, and yet I would often trust a woman's intuitive knowledge against the most conspicuous clues or evidences."
Kitty thanked him with a smile, but before she could speak, Miss Morton came into the room.
"It's perfectly dreadful," that lady began, in her impetuous way; "they're going to have the coroner after all! Doctor Leonard has sent for him and he may arrive at any minute. Isn't it awful? There'll be an inquest, and the house will be thronged with all sorts of people!"
"Why are they going to have an inquest?" demanded Kitty, whirling around and grasping Miss Morton by her elbows.
"Because," she said, quite as excited as Kitty herself "—because the doctors think that perhaps Madeleine didn't kill herself; that she was—"
"Murdered!" exclaimed Kitty. "I knew it! I knew she was! Who killed her?"
"Mercy! I don't know," exclaimed Miss Morton, frightened at Kitty's vehemence. "That's what the coroner is coming to find out."
"But who do you think did it? You must have some idea!"
"I haven't! Don't look at me like that! What do you mean?"
"It must have been a burglar," went on Kitty, "because it couldn't have been any one else. But why didn't he steal things? Perhaps he did! We never thought to look?"
"How you do run on! Nobody could steal the presents, because there was a policeman in the house all the time."
"Then, why didn't he catch the burglar?" demanded Kitty, grasping Miss Morton's arm, as if that lady had information that must be dragged from her by force.
Feeling interested in getting at the facts in the case, and thinking that he could learn little from these two excited women, Rob Fessenden turned into the hall just in time to meet Doctor Hills, who was coming from the library.
"May I introduce myself?" he said. "I'm Robert Fessenden, of New York, a lawyer, and I was to have been best man at the wedding. You, I know, are Doctor Hills, and I want to say to you that if the earnest endeavor of an amateur detective would be of any use to you in this matter, it is at your disposal. Mr. Carleton is my old and dear friend, and I need not tell you how he now calls forth my sympathy."
Instinctively, Doctor Hills liked this young man. His frank manner and pleasant, straightforward ways impressed the doctor favorably, and he shook hands warmly as he said, "This is most kind of you, Mr. Fessenden, and you may prove the very man we need. At first, we were all convinced that Miss Van Norman's death was a suicide; and though the evidence still strongly points to that, I am sure that there is a possibility, at least, that it is not true."
"May I learn the details of the case? May I go into the library?" said Fessenden, hesitating to approach the closed door until invited.
"Yes, indeed; I'll take you in at once. Doctor Leonard, who is in there, is the county physician, and, though a bit brusque in his manner, he is an honest old soul, and does unflinchingly what he judges to be his duty."
Neither then nor at any time, neither to Doctor Leonard himself nor to any one else, did Doctor Hills ever mention the difference of opinion which the two men had held for so long the night before, nor did he tell how he had proved his own theory so positively that Doctor Leonard had been obliged to confess himself wrong. It was not in Doctor Hills' nature to say "I told you so," and, fully appreciating this, Doctor Leonard said nothing either, but threw himself into the case heart and soul in his endeavors to seek truth and justice.
Fessenden and Doctor Hills entered the library, where everything was much as it had been the night before. At one time the doctors had been about to move the body to a couch, and to remove the disfigured gown, but after Doctor Leonard had been persuaded to agree with Doctor Hills' view of the ease, they had left everything untouched until the coroner should come.
The discovery of this was a satisfaction to Robert Fessenden. His detective instinct had begun to assert itself, and he was glad of an opportunity to examine the room before the arrival of the coroner. Though not seeming unduly curious, his eyes darted about in an eager search for possible clues of any sort. Without touching them, he examined the dagger, the written paper, the appointments of the library table, and the body itself, with its sweet, sad face, its drooping posture, and its tragically stained raiment.
In true detective fashion he scrutinized the carpet, glanced at the window fastenings, and noted the appointments of the library table.
The only thing Fessenden touched, however, was a lead pencil which lay on the pen-rack. It was an ordinary pencil, but he gazed intently at the gilt lettering stamped upon it, and then returned it to its place.
Again he glanced quickly but carefully at every article on the table, and then, taking a chair, sat quietly in a corner, unobtrusive but alert.
With something of a bustling air the coroner came in. Coroner Benson was a fussy sort of man, with a somewhat exaggerated sense of his own importance.
He paused with what he probably considered a dramatic start when he saw the dead body of Miss Van Norman, and, shaking his head, said, "Alas! Alas!" in tragic tones.
Miss Morton and Kitty French had followed him in, and stood arm in arm, a little bewildered, but determined to know whatever might transpire. Cicely Dupuy and Miss Markham had also come in.
But after a glance round and a preliminary clearing of his throat, he at once requested that everybody except the two doctors should leave the room.
Fessenden and Kitty French were greatly disappointed at this, but the others went out with a feeling of relief, for the strain was beginning to tell upon the nerves of all concerned.
As usual, Miss Morton tried to exercise her powers of generalship, and directed that they should all assemble in the drawing-room until recalled to learn the coroner's opinion.
Mrs. Markham, unheeding Miss Morton's dictum, went away to attend to her household duties, and Cicely went to her own room, but the others waited in the drawing-room. They were joined shortly by Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, who arrived at about the same time.
Mr. Carleton, never a robust man, looked like a wreck of his former self. Years had been added to his apparent age; his impassive face wore a look of stony grief, and his dark eyes seemed filled with an unutterable horror.
Tom Willard, on the contrary, being of stout build and rubicund countenance, seemed an ill-fitting figure in the sad and tearful group.
But as Kitty French remarked to Fessenden in a whisper, "Poor Tom probably feels the worst of any of us, and it isn't his fault that he can't make that fat, jolly face of his look more funereal."
"And he's said to be the heir to the estate, too," Fessenden whispered back.
"Now, that's mean of you," declared Kitty. "Tom hasn't a greedy hair in his head, and I don't believe he has even thought of his fortune. And, besides, he was desperately in love with Madeleine. A whole heap more in love than Mr. Carleton was."
Fessenden stared at her.
"Then why was Carleton marrying her?"
"For her money," said Kitty, with a disdainful air.
"I didn't know that," went on Fessenden, quite seriously. "I thought Carleton was hard hit. She was a magnificent woman."
"Oh, she was, indeed," agreed Kitty enthusiastically. "Mr. Carleton didn't half appreciate her, and Tom did. But then she was always very different with Tom. Somehow she always seemed constrained when with Mr. Carleton."
"Then why was she marrying him?"
"She