Emily stopped him. “You don’t know how my dear father died,” she said. “He was struck down—apparently in perfect health—by disease of the heart.”
“Struck down in his own house?”
“Yes—in his own house.”
Those words closed Alban’s lips. The investigation so carefully and so delicately conducted had failed to serve any useful purpose. He had now ascertained the manner of Mr. Brown’s death and the place of Mr. Brown’s death—and he was as far from confirming his suspicions of Mrs. Rook as ever.
CHAPTER XI. THE DRAWING-MASTER’S CONFESSION.
“Is there nothing else you can suggest?” Emily asked.
“Nothing—at present.”
“If my aunt fails us, have we no other hope?”
“I have hope in Mrs. Rook,” Alban answered. “I see I surprise you; but I really mean what I say. Sir Jervis’s housekeeper is an excitable woman, and she is fond of wine. There is always a weak side in the character of such a person as that. If we wait for our chance, and turn it to the right use when it comes, we may yet succeed in making her betray herself.”