“There are no marks of foul play?” I inquired anxiously.
“None, as far as I’ve been able to find—only a scratch on the left cheek, evidently inflicted after death.”
“What’s your opinion?”
“Suicide. Without a doubt. The hour at which she fell into the water is shown by her watch. It stopped at 2.28.”
“You have no suspicion of foul play?”
“None whatever.”
I did not reply; but by the compression of my lips I presume he saw that I was dubious.
“Ah! I see you are suspicious,” he said. “Of course, in tragic circumstances like these the natural conclusion is to doubt. The poor young lady’s husband was mysteriously done to death, and I honestly believe that her mind gave way beneath the strain of grief. I’ve attended her professionally two or three times of late, and noted certain abnormal features in her case that aroused my suspicions that her brain had become unbalanced. I never, however, suspected her of suicidal tendency.”
“Her mother, Mrs. Mivart, did,” I responded. “She told me so only a few days ago.”
“I know, I know,” he answered. “Of course, her mother had more frequent and intimate opportunities for watching her than we had. In any case it is a very dreadful thing for the family.”