“Doctor Rogers thinks it was the work of some small girl——”
“Ridiculous!” cried Alma. “Does he think a small girl killed my uncle?”
“No, apparently the deed was done by a strong man. But he thinks the flowers and those things were put where they were found by some mischievous child. Do you know of any ten- or twelve-year-old girl near by?”
“No, I don’t,” and she looked about wonderingly. “Of course, there are lots of them in the village, but I know of none among the servants’ families or in the neighbourhood at all. I don’t agree with Doctor Rogers. It’s too fantastic to think of a child coming along here at that time of night and getting into the house——Oh, the very idea is ridiculous.”
“I agree to that,” said Hart. “But how can we explain the feather duster and the food and all that?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Alma declared, “but any man who was diabolically minded enough to drive a nail into the head of a sleeping victim would have a distorted brain, and might have done all those queer things. But cannot you detectives and policemen find out the truth?”
Her tone was appealing, she seemed to be asking their help, and I marvelled afresh at her poise and calm.
“You and Mrs. Dallas are friendly?” Coroner Hart broke out, abruptly.
“Oh, yes. We are not intimates, she is older than I am. But we have never had anything but the pleasantest of interviews.”
“You are friendly with Mr. Ames?”