They take it standing, full in the face, and there is never even a touch of the dramatic about it.
The detective made no move forward. He waited; and presently, after a moment of silence, Lynne raised his head, then got upon his feet again, and with an apparent effort at calmness he said, half brokenly:
“Tell me about it.�
“I have told you about it, Mr. Lynne.�
“But—what does it mean? What killed her? What happened?â€�
“Who can know what happened, who was not there to witness what happened?�
“But—you keep me in doubt. I do not know what you mean.â€�
“The body of Miss Lynne is in the parlor of her own private suite of rooms; it is upon the divan couch, among the pillows, as if she had thrown herself there to rest. Her left arm extends along the top of the pillows; her right one hangs over the edge of the couch, and on the rug beneath the right hand there is an empty vial that has contained prussic acid. That is as much as I can tell you.�
“Suicide? Do you mean that she killed herself?�
“Appearances would point to such an answer, Mr. Lynne. Do you know of any reason why your daughter should have killed herself? or why she should have thought of doing so?�