“Perhaps we have no right to ask. Now you must tell me some other things, and, believe me, my questions are not prompted by curiosity, but are necessary to the discovery of the truth. Why did Mr. Carleton point to that paper?”
“He—he seemed so shocked and stunned that he was almost unable to speak. I suppose he thought that would explain why she had killed herself.”
“But she hadn’t killed herself.”
“But he thought she had, and he thought that paper proved it.”
“But why had he need to prove it, and to you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what he thought! I don’t know what I thought myself after I reached the library door and looked in and saw that dreadful sight! Oh, I shall see it all my life!” At the memory Cicely broke down again and sank into her chair, shaking with convulsive sobs.
Mr. Benson did not disturb her further, but proceeded to question the others.
The account of Marie, the maid, merely served to corroborate what Cicely had said. Marie, too, had heard Carleton’s cry for help, and, throwing on a dressing-gown, had run down-stairs to Madeleine’s room. Not finding her mistress there, she had hurried down to the first floor, reaching the lower hall but a few minutes after Cicely did. She said also that it was just about half-past eleven by the clock in her own room when she heard Mr. Carleton’s cry.
“You knew who it was that had called out so loudly?” asked Mr. Benson.
“No, m’sieu; I heard only the shriek as of one in great disaster. I ran to Miss Van Norman’s room, as that was my first duty.”