"But there's nothing to tell. The bare facts you know—I've told you those; as to the rest, the police or Miss Iris must tell you."
"You're right," agreed Bannard. "I'm glad you are not inclined to guess or surmise. There must be some explanation, of course. How about the windows?"
"Well, you know those windows, Mr. Bannard. They're as securely barred as the ones in the bank, and more so. Ever since Mrs. Pell took that room for her treasure room, about eight or ten years ago, they've been protected by steel lattice work and that's untouched. That settles the windows, and there's only the one door, and that Purdy and I broke open. Now, that's all I know about it."
Bannard relapsed into silence, and Campbell didn't speak again until they reached the house.
"Oh, I'm so glad you've come!" was the first greeting to the young man as he entered the hall at Pellbrook. It was spoken by Mrs. Bowen, who had been with Iris ever since she was summoned by telephone, that afternoon. "It's all so dreadful,—the doctors are examining the body now—and the coroner is here—and two detectives—and Iris is so queer——" the poor little lady quite broke down, in her relief at having some one to share her responsibility.
"Isn't Mr. Bowen here?" Bannard said, as he followed her into the living-room.
"No, he had to attend service, he'll come after church. Here is Iris."
The girl did not rise at Bannard's approach, but sat, looking up at him, her face full of inquiry.
"Where have you been?" she demanded; "why didn't you come sooner? I telegraphed at four o'clock—I telephoned first, but they said—they said you were out."
"I was; I only came in at seven, and then I found your messages, and I caught the first train possible."