"Miss Harriman? I should think she may be twenty-five. She is dark, slender, and beautifully dressed. Rather an—an expensive sort of young lady, perhaps."
"Did she act as though she were much—well, in love with—Mr.
Cunningham?"
The bright eyes twinkled. "She's not a young woman who wears her heart on her sleeve, I judge. I can't answer that question. My opinion is that he was very much in love with her. Why do you ask?"
"You have read about his death since, of course," he said.
"Is he dead? No, I didn't know it." The birdlike eyes opened wider.
"That's strange too."
"It's on account of the mystery of his death that I'm troubling you,
Mrs. Rankin. We want it cleared up, of course."
"But—two James Cunninghams haven't died mysteriously, have they?" she asked. "The nephew isn't killed, too, is he?"
"Oh, no. Just my uncle."
"Then we're mixed up somewhere. How old was your uncle?"
"He was past fifty-six—just past."