“I may not be ‘everything like that,’” said Fessenden, with a faint smile, “but I am a sort of detective in an amateur 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—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!”