“I have been in bed on and off for nearly ten days. But I felt I must come down here and learn what had really happened to-day. Have you seen any one who was there?”
“Yes, I’ve seen the rector. What told against Harry most was Dr. Maclean’s evidence. But no arsenic has yet been traced to his possession.”
In spite of herself, as she said those last words Miss Prince’s voice altered slightly.
“Why should he be suspected then—more than any one else who was in the house at the time?”
Miss Prince thought this a very silly question.
“What is absolutely certain, Agatha, is that poor Emily died, poisoned with an unusually large quantity of arsenic.”
“I know that,” said Miss Cheale in a quieter tone. “And yet—I daresay you will think me very foolish—though I do know it’s true, somehow I can’t believe it. Once or twice I’ve wondered—you’ll think me raving mad”—her voice sank almost to a whisper as she fixed her burning, sunken eyes on Miss Prince’s face—“if the analyst, the man who made the examination, could have mixed up poor Mrs. Garlett’s remains with those of some one else?”
“My dear Agatha!” the older woman looked at her with concern, and then, choosing her words, she said: “You mustn’t allow your feelings of affection for Mr. Garlett to affect——”
“I know what you mean,” broke in Agatha Cheale. “But while my reason tells me Emily Garlett was poisoned, everything else tells me that it can’t be true.”
“I’ve often wondered,” said Miss Prince suddenly, “what first started the inquiry. After all, none of us had the slightest suspicion there was anything wrong, had we?”