“Maybe, maybe. I’d do anything to learn a few things I want to know.” We had reached the Pleasure Dome boathouse now, and from an attendant there March commandeered a small boat, which he said he would row himself. “I like a bit of exercise,” he told me, “and rowing is my preference.” So we went on, past Variable Winds, on down to the Island of Whistling Reeds. A quiet, rather grim-faced man helped us to make our landing and we went up to the house. Before we reached it, March paused to give it a moment’s study. We looked at its pleasant porches and its windows with light, fluttering curtains. From one window, on the second floor, a face looked out at us, a girl’s face, with dark, bobbed hair. The head was quickly withdrawn, and we went up the steps and March rang the bell. In a moment the door was opened by the girl whose face we had seen at the window. She now wore a bit of a frilled cap with a black velvet bow. This she had obviously donned at the sound of the doorbell. “We have come,” March said to her, in his pleasant way, “to look over the house.” “It isn’t for sale,” she said, not frightened at all, but seeming a little amused. “I know. I don’t want to buy or rent it. Are you the parlour maid?” “I’m Miss Remsen’s personal maid—lady’s maid,” she returned, bridling a bit, as if to be a parlour maid was beneath her rank. “Oh, I see. I thought Miss Remsen had her nurse——” “Yes. Mrs. Merivale is my mother. We both look after Miss Alma.” “I’m sure she’s well taken care of. Now——” “Dora, sir,” she said, divining his question with quick intuition. “Well, Dora, I suppose you are devoted to Miss Remsen?” “Oh, that I am, sir. I’d die for her!” “Well, we don’t want you to do that, but something far easier. We just want you to answer a few questions. Is anybody in the house beside yourself?” “Nobody, sir.” “All gone to the funeral?” “Yes, sir. All but Michael, down at the dock, and me.” “Very well. Now, do you remember the night Mr. Tracy died?” “Yes, sir.” “Where was Miss Remsen that night?” “Here at home, sir.” “What did she do through the evening?” “She read in a book, sir, then she played the piano a bit and then she went to bed.” This was reeled off glibly, a little too glibly, I thought. It sounded parrot-like, as if a lesson, learned by rote. Evidently March thought so too, for he said, looking at her closely: “How do you know this?” “How do I know?” she looked a little blank. “Oh, yes, I know, because I saw her now and again as I passed through the hall.” “I see. Now, what book was she reading? Do you know?” “No, sir, I don’t know that.” “But you saw her reading?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, what kind of book was it? A big book?” “No—no, sir, I think not. I think it was a smallish book——” “With a paper cover?” “Yes, sir, with a paper cover.” “Stop it, March,” I cried, involuntarily. “You sha’n’t put words into her mouth!” “Keep still, Norris,” he said, sternly, “and remember what I told you.”