“Fatal?” he repeated, running his finger inside his neckband, which suddenly seemed to have grown too tight for comfort. “Can it be that my niece has been frightened to death in that old place? You alarm me.”
He did not look alarmed, but then he was not of an impressible nature. Yet he was of the same human clay as the rest of us, and, if he knew no more of this occurrence than he tried to make out, could not be altogether impervious to what I had to say next.
“You have a right to be alarmed,” I assented. “She was not frightened to death, yet is she lying dead on the library floor.” Then, with a glance at the windows about me, I added lightly: “I take it that a pistol-shot delivered over there could not be heard in this room.”
He sank rather melodramatically into his seat, yet his face and form did not lose that sudden assumption of dignity which I had observed in him ever since my entrance into the house.
“I am overwhelmed by this news,” he remarked. “She has shot herself? Why?”
“I did not say that she had shot herself,” I carefully repeated. “Yet the facts point that way and Mr. Jeffrey accepts the suicide theory without question.”
“Ah, Mr. Jeffrey is there!”
“Most certainly; he was sent for at once.”
“And Miss Tuttle? She came with him of course?”
“She came, but not with him. She is very fond of her sister.”