“She had the same throat,” said Miss Elizabeth. “Exactly the same symptoms. Don't you remember, Mary?”
“Which was her bedroom?” I asked of Baxter in an undertone.
“Over the south verandah, looking on to the tennis lawn.”
“I nearly fell out of that very window when I was at Holmescroft—opening it to get some air. The sill doesn't come much above your knees,” I said.
“You hear that, Mary? Mary, do you hear what this gentleman says? Won't you believe that what nearly happened to you must have happened to poor Aggie that night? For God's sake—for her sake—Mary, won't you believe?”
There was a long silence while the steam kettle puffed.
“If I could have proof—if I could have proof,” said she, and broke into most horrible tears.
Baxter motioned to me, and I crept away to my room, and lay awake till morning, thinking more specially of the dumb Thing at Holmescroft which wished to explain itself. I hated Miss Mary as perfectly as though I had known her for twenty years, but I felt that, alive or dead, I should not like her to condemn me.
Yet at mid-day, when I saw Miss Mary in her bathchair, Arthurs behind and Baxter and Miss Elizabeth on either side, in the park-like grounds of the Hydro, I found it difficult to arrange my words.
“Now that you know all about it,” said Baxter aside, after the first strangeness of our meeting was over, “it's only fair to tell you that my poor cousin did not die in Holmescroft at all. She was dead when they found her under the window in the morning. Just dead.”