"Well, Miss Murray died five years after Mr. Lewis. She died--well, I don't know exactly what it was. But she had _attacks_. She was a terrible sufferer. And she was worried--money matters worried her. You see, little Cherry's mother died when she was born and her father soon after. Miss Murray'd always had Cherry and felt responsible for her. I know, because she told me. 'It ain't myself, Eunice Spash,' she said to me more'n once. 'It's little Cherry.' Anyway, she was alone when her last attack came. She'd sent for a cousin--I forget the name--to be with her, and she was up in Boston getting a nurse, and I was in the other side of the house. I never heard a sound. We found her dead in the middle of the floor--there." Her crooked forefinger indicated the spot. "Seemed she'd got up and tried to get to the door to call. But she dropped and died halfway. She was all contorted. Her face looked--Not so much suffering of the body as-- Well, you could see it in her face that it come to her that she was going, and Cherry was left with nothing." "What became of that cousin?" Lindsay inquired. "I have asked everybody in the neighborhood, but nobody seems to know." "And I don't know. She went to Boston, taking Cherry with her. For a time we heard from Cherry now and then--she'd write letters to the children. Then we lost sight of her. I don't know whether Miss Murray's cousin's living or dead; Cherry either." Lindsay felt that he could have assured her that Cherry was alive; but his conclusion rested on premises too gauzy for him to hazard the statement. Mrs. Spash sighed. She arose, led the way into the hall. "This was Mr. Monroe's room; and Mr. Gale's room was back of his. He liked the room that overlooked the garden. Mr. Monroe--" "That's the big man, the sculptor," Lindsay hazarded. "How'd you know?" Mrs. Spash pounced on him again. "Oh, I've talked with a lot of people in the neighborhood," Lindsay returned evasively. "That Mr. Monroe," Mrs. Spash glided on easily, "was a case and a half. Nothing but talk and laugh every moment he was in the house. I used to admire to have him come." "Where is he?" Lindsay asked easily. He hoped Mrs. Spash did not guess how, mentally, he hung upon her answer. "He went to Italy--to Florence--after Miss Murray died." Mrs. Spash stopped. "He was in love with Miss Murray. Had been for years. She wouldn't have him though. He was an awful nice man. Sometimes I thought she would have him. But after Mr. Lewis came-- Queer, worn't it? I don't know whether Mr. Monroe's alive or dead." Again Lindsay felt that he could have assured her that he was alive, but again gauzy premises inhibited exact conclusions.