“Do you know anything to the contrary?” quickly.
“No. But,” she hesitated, “some one must have been inside the house as well as my aunt.”
“And that some one—?”
“Murdered my aunt,” looking him calmly in the eyes. “She never committed suicide.”
Mitchell regarded her steadfastly. “Can you give me no hint of the identity of your aunt’s caller?” he asked. “Think carefully, Miss Baird. Have you no suspicion who might have murdered your aunt?”
Kitty did not reply at once; instead her hand slipped inside her coat pocket and her fingers closed about the small slip of mauve-colored paper tucked underneath her handkerchief, while the message it bore recurred to her: “Leigh, you are watched.”
To what did Mrs. Parsons’ warning allude? To what could it allude? And why did Inspector Mitchell invariably drag Leigh Wallace’s name into their conversation? And what had inspired her aunt’s hatred of Leigh? Could it have been fear? Fear of what—Death? Kitty shuddered, then pulled herself together. She must not let fancies run away with her.
“I know of no one who could have had a motive for killing poor Aunt Susan,” she said. “It must have been the work of some one afflicted with homicidal tendencies.”
“I’ll stake my reputation that it was no maniac,” declared Mitchell. “The crime was deliberately planned and by some one with nerves absolutely under control. Look at the manner in which the poison was administered—placed on one side of the knife-blade, so that the prussic acid only touched the piece of peach given to your aunt, and the murderer ate his half in perfect safety. It was neat, devilishly neat!”