It was. The silver tray that had held the breakfast tea was on the floor, and near it a jumbled heap of silver and broken china that had once been a costly Sevres set. Dainty white serviettes were stained with the spilled tea and a huge wet spot was near the overturned silver teapot.
Hastily Anita ran from the room, but she sank down on a couch in the hall just outside the door, utterly unable to go further.
Fascinated by the beady eyes of the green snake, Pauline stared at it, with clenched hands. Haviland stepped nearer and lightly touched it.
“Is it—is it alive?” gasped Pauline.
“It’s paper,” replied Haviland quietly. “A paper snake, a toy,—you know.”
“But who put it there? Aunt Lucy is deathly afraid of snakes! Did fright kill her? Gray, is she—murdered?”
“Yes, Pauline, she has been killed. But could it be—fright? Impossible!”
“Not for her! You don’t know her horror of snakes. Why, going through the Japanese department of a shop, I’ve seen her turn white and fairly fly from the counter where those paper things were displayed.”
“But what else killed her? There is no wound, no shot, no blood.”
“Get the doctor, Gray! Don’t wait a minute. Telephone at once.”