"You mean that her death recalls the mystery of Francis Graeme's taking off?"
"Just that."
"Go on and tell me the whole story, doctor. There's no need for us to beat about the bush."
"But it's so little I have to tell," protested Marcy. "The bare facts are these:"
"I was coming back from Lynn Saturday, and, on passing your gate, I thought I would drive in and ask Betty for a cup of tea. Lucky I did so, for I found her in a great state of mind. It seems that early in the morning Eunice had shut herself up in the library on the plea of doing some writing. She did not appear in the dining room at one o'clock, the luncheon hour, and Effingham reported that the door was locked on the inside. He had knocked repeatedly without getting any reply.
"Well, you can understand how all this recalled to Betty the peculiar circumstances surrounding Graeme's death. And the servants were scared out of their very wits; you know by this time the psychological vagaries of the African mind.
"There was only one thing to do. I had Effingham produce his master-key, and the door was opened. The room seemed to be in perfect order—absolutely no signs of a struggle of any kind. When I passed the screen—that same leather screen—I saw the girl. She was sitting in the swivel-chair, but her head had fallen forward on the table. The body was still warm, but she was stone dead."
"Any marks of violence?" I asked, thinking of the wound on Francis Graeme's forehead.
"None whatever."
"When did all this happen?"