“Really, to tell the truth, I don’t know myself why I came,” he answered. “When this terrible event happened, your old housekeeper was quite unnerved, and there seemed no one to undertake the job. It did not seem right that you should see it first in the papers, or get a telegram.”
“I am much obliged to you. You must not think me ungrateful, but of course I am rather upset at present. I have read what the newspapers have to say. Perhaps you can tell me more?” and she motioned him to sit.
“I won’t go into details, Miss Watson,” he said. “The accounts in the papers are accurate as far as they go. I can, however, tell you this. Your father did not suffer at all. His look was most peaceful, and it appears that he was shot while asleep.”
A look of pain crossed her face, but she mastered her emotion.
“I am thankful for even that,” she said. “Have the police any idea at all who can have done this cruel thing. I do not believe my father had any enemies, he was such a good and upright man that no one could have a grudge against him.”
“At present all is dark,” he replied, “but of course you must remember that as Home Secretary your father was brought in contact with the worst criminals in the country, and one of them may have been trying to avenge a fancied wrong. Then, again, it may have been the work of a lunatic. That is more than probable.”
“In a way I hope it was,” she said. “One could feel that it was the sort of accident that might happen to anyone. It is so dreadful to think that someone has deliberately murdered him.”
She stumbled over the ill-omened word, and nearly broke down. The watchful nurse came near and laid a hand on her head. A look of gratitude shone for a moment in her eyes, and she reached up and took the hand in hers.
It was a pathetic picture.
“You will forgive me asking,” she continued, “but I do not quite see what you were doing there, Mr. Collins, you are not in the Police Force?”