"Be ca'm, now, Miss Iris, do be ca'm," she urged, stupidly.
"Hush up, Polly, I am calm. Don't say such foolish things. You know I'm not the sort to faint or fly into hysterics."
"I know you ain't, Miss Iris, but you're so still and queer like——"
"Who wouldn't be? Polly, explain it. What happened to Aunt Ursula—do you think?"
"Miss Iris, they ain't no explanation. I'm a quick thinker, I am, and I tell you, there ain't no way that murderer—for there sure was a murderer—could 'a' got in that room or got out, with that door locked."
"Then she killed herself?"
"No, she couldn't possibly 'a' done that. You know yourself, she couldn't. When she screamed 'Thieves!' the thieves was there. Now, how did they get away? They ain't no secret way in an' out, that I know. I've lived in this house too many years to be fooled about its buildin'. It's a mystery, that's what it is, a mystery."
"Will it ever be solved?" and Iris looked at old Polly as if inquiring of a sibyl.
"Land, child, how do I know? I ain't no seer. I s'pose some of those smart detectives can make it out, but it's beyond me!"
"Oh, Polly, they won't have detectives, will they?"