But, as it so often happens, my fine resolutions came to naught, and six hours later I was on my way North, summoned by wire to the bedside of my only living relative, my good Aunt Livy Marston, who had been more than a mother to me for the best part of my life. Dear old lady! She finally won her battle with death, but it was not until nearly three weeks later that the doctors pronounced her to be out of danger, and I was free to return home; to be precise, it was on Monday night, June the twenty-second, that I left for Maryland, arriving at our little station of Crown Ferry late in the afternoon of the following day. To my surprise Doctor Marcy, with his gig, was waiting for me. One glance at his face was enough. I tried to speak, but a great fear clutched at my throat. "Betty is perfectly well," said Marcy hastily. "She sends her love, and is expecting you at the 'Hundred.'" I threw my traveling bag in behind, and climbed to my place at his side; the doctor's whiplash flickered along the blue-roan's broad back, and we were quickly out of earshot, so far as the station loungers were concerned. "Who is it then?" I asked. "Eunice Trevor." "Yes." "She died day before yesterday--suddenly." "An accident?" "She was found dead, sitting in the library at the big, flat-topped desk," and Doctor Marcy shot me a sharp glance from the remote corner of his eye. "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?"