“Know it? No, no, that is impossible.�
“It is not impossible. It is a fact.�
“But——â€�
“Edythe died from the effects of a dose of prussic acid. People who die from prussic acid die so suddenly there is no time for a thought even. Her eyes would have been wide open now, if some person had not closed them—the murderer!â€�
“The murderer? Ah, no, not that.�
“Yes. I mean that.�
“But—I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. It is impossible! It is preposterous! It is not to be thought of. Search, search, Carter; you will find somewhere a note that she has left behind her to tell of this deed. It must be so.â€�
“Even if I should find such a note or letter, Mr. Lynne, I would not believe it. I would deem it a forgery, made by a clever scoundrel, to deceive others. Edythe Lynne did not kill herself; she was killed!�
“But—who? Who? Who could have done such a thing?â€�
“Ah, who, indeed? That is yet to be determined.�