“Where is Aunt Charlotte?”
“She went to her room to lie down.”
Cynthia raised herself on her elbow and glanced searchingly about the pretty sitting-room filled with its bird’s-eye maple furniture. The yellow wallpaper, with its wide border of pink roses, chintz curtains and hangings, cast a soft yellow glow, which was exceedingly becoming, as well as restful to the eye. The afternoon sunshine came through the long French windows which overlooked a broad alley.
“Eleanor, would you mind closing the door of my bedroom,” she asked, “and please first see that—that Blanche isn’t sitting there sewing.”
Eleanor glanced curiously at Cynthia as she rose, crossed to the adjoining bedroom, and softly closed the door. “There is no one in your room,” she reported, on her return to her rocking-chair.
Cynthia settled back among her pillows with an air of satisfaction. “At last I have you to myself. First the trained nurse, whom I didn’t need, and then Aunt Charlotte, have always been hanging around, and I haven’t had a chance to ask you any questions.”
“What is it you wish to know?”
“Was there—was there—an autopsy?” Noting Eleanor’s expression, she exclaimed hastily: “Now, Eleanor dear, don’t say I must not talk of Uncle James’ death. The nurse wouldn’t answer me when I spoke on the subject; said I must not think of the tragedy, that it was bad for me. Such nonsense! I would have asked Aunt Charlotte, but she’s been so queer lately, not in the least like her own dear self.”
“Mrs. Winthrop is living under such great strain these days, Cynthia, it’s not surprising. Her brother dead—Philip very ill——”
“They told me he was better,” hastily jerked out Cynthia, with a startled look in her big, brown eyes.