“Kitty,” Charles Craige’s charmingly modulated voice sounded soothingly to her overwrought nerves. “I would have prepared you for this had I known,” he hesitated, “these details. But Inspector Mitchell only telephoned to me that your aunt was dead, and it was not until we both came in that I learned, as you have, of the tragedy. I grieve with you, dear child; your aunt was my good friend for many years.”
Kitty looked up at him gratefully. She was very fond of her handsome godfather. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I feel stunned.” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “Oh, poor aunty—to die here alone! Why, why didn’t I get up early and come here at once without waiting for breakfast? I might have saved her.”
McLean moved uneasily and exchanged glances with Mitchell.
“Don’t reproach yourself, Kitty,” he begged. “Your presence here this morning would not have saved your aunt,” and as she looked at him in astonishment, he added more slowly, “judging from the condition of the body, your aunt died fully twenty hours ago.”
Charles Craig broke the silence. “Twenty hours ago,” he repeated. “That would be yesterday—”
“Sunday afternoon, to be exact,” stated Inspector Mitchell. “When did you leave here, Miss Baird?”
“Yesterday afternoon, about three o’clock; no, nearly four,” Kitty corrected herself with a haste not lost upon the inspector.
“And when did you last see your aunt alive?” he questioned.
“About that time.” Kitty’s foot tapped restlessly against the rug. “She was in her bedroom, and I called to her as I went down the staircase.”
“What did you say to her?” Mitchell was taking mental note of Kitty’s well-groomed appearance and her nervous handling of her handkerchief.