“That’s right,” agreed Potter. “Bill’s the man when it comes to architecture and building plans. Well,—let’s get along upstairs, then.”
Going through the kitchen again, Potter picked up the yellow pillow and took it along with him. Quite evidently it belonged to a sofa in the large, square front hall. The upholstery fabric was the same, and there was a corresponding pillow already at one end of the sofa.
“Queer thing,” Potter said; “how’d that fine cushion get on the kitchen floor?”
“It is queer,” Landon assented, “but I can’t see any meaning in it, can you?”
“Not yet,” returned Potter. “Now, Doctor Varian,” and he turned to the physician who sat with bowed head beside his brother’s body, “I dessay the undertakers’ll be coming along soon. You see them and make plans for the funeral; while Bill and I go on over this house. Then, we’ll have to see the rest of the people who were around at the time of the—the tragedy.”
“Not Mrs Frederick Varian,” said Herbert, “you can’t see her. I forbid that, as her physician.”
“Well, we’ll see your wife first, and then, we’ll have to see the folks that went back to the village. And there’s the servants to be questioned.”
But the careful and exhaustive search of the two inquiry agents failed to disclose any sign of the missing Betty Varian or any clue to her whereabouts. They went over the whole house, even into the bedroom of the newly-made widow,—whose deep artificial sleep made this possible.
This was the last room they visited, and as they tiptoed out, Bill said,
“Never saw such a case! No clue anywhere; not even mysterious circumstances. Everything just as natural and commonplace as it can be.”