“Do you think he shot himself?”
“No, I think not. From the position of the wound I should think it more likely that somebody else shot him.”
“And where was the wound?”
“In the back.”
There was a pause. Then Freda looked up in the doctor’s face.
“They won’t tell me anything, so I had to ask you. Thank you for telling me. Good-bye.”
She left the doctor, and went back slowly to the gate. Mrs. Bean, who answered her summons, looked angry and disconcerted on learning how she had been employed.
“I think you’d best have followed your own whims and gone back to the convent,” she said drily, “we don’t want any more questions than necessary asked here just now. There’ll be quite enough of a rumpus as it is.”
She turned her back upon Freda pretty sharply, and walked back to her kitchen with an offended air. The girl, however, was not to be shaken off.
“Mrs. Bean,” she said, following her, “this doctor never saw my father while he was alive!”