“That we don’t know yet, the doctor will be here any minute, and the coroner, too.”
Even as he spoke, Doctor Rogers arrived. He was the family physician, and as Farrell opened the door to his knock, he went straight to the bed.
“What’s all this rubbish?” he exclaimed, reaching for the scarf.
“Don’t touch it, If you can help it, Doctor,” March implored him. “It may be evidence——”
“Evidence of what?”
“Crime—murder—or is it a natural death?”
Doctor Rogers was making his examination with as little disturbance as might be of the flowers and scarf.
But the feather duster he pulled from its place and flung across the room. The orange followed it, and the crackers.
“Pick them up if you want them for clues,” he said; “you know where they were found, and I won’t have my friend photographed with all those monkey tricks about him!”
March picked up the things, with a due regard for possible finger prints, and stored them away in a drawer of the chiffonier.