I realized then what beautiful eyes they were. Deep brown, with long, curling black lashes, and an expression of wistful appeal that would go straight to any man’s heart. Once for all, I was committed to the cause of Alma Remsen, and never, to Kee Moore or to anybody else, would I divulge any word that might make trouble for her. I wasn’t exactly in love with the girl then, or if I was I didn’t know it. But I felt like a guardian toward her, and surely my first duty was to guard the secret of her canoe trip that night. “You come over here often?” Moore asked, in his pleasant way, and she replied without hesitation. “Oh, yes, I come over in my canoe or my motor boat nearly every day. Uncle gives me vegetables and fruit from the garden, and flowers, too.” “You say you haven’t seen your uncle since his death,” Kee went on. “Have you been told of the peculiar details of his deathbed?” “Yes,” Alma said, her brown eyes clouding with perplexity. “But I can’t understand the meaning of such conditions. Who do you suppose would do such absurd things?” “Doctor Rogers thinks it was the work of some small girl——” “Ridiculous!” cried Alma. “Does he think a small girl killed my uncle?” “No, apparently the deed was done by a strong man. But he thinks the flowers and those things were put where they were found by some mischievous child. Do you know of any ten- or twelve-year-old girl near by?” “No, I don’t,” and she looked about wonderingly. “Of course, there are lots of them in the village, but I know of none among the servants’ families or in the neighbourhood at all. I don’t agree with Doctor Rogers. It’s too fantastic to think of a child coming along here at that time of night and getting into the house——Oh, the very idea is ridiculous.” “I agree to that,” said Hart. “But how can we explain the feather duster and the food and all that?” “I don’t know, I’m sure,” Alma declared, “but any man who was diabolically minded enough to drive a nail into the head of a sleeping victim would have a distorted brain, and might have done all those queer things. But cannot you detectives and policemen find out the truth?” Her tone was appealing, she seemed to be asking their help, and I marvelled afresh at her poise and calm. “You and Mrs. Dallas are friendly?” Coroner Hart broke out, abruptly. “Oh, yes. We are not intimates, she is older than I am. But we have never had anything but the pleasantest of interviews.” “You are friendly with Mr. Ames?” “In a general way, yes. He too, is so much older than I am that I have never given him a thought save as a friend of my uncle’s. I don’t know Mr. Ames very well, but I’ve certainly no unfriendly feelings toward him.” I wondered at myself. Why did I so admire this girl, so respect her, and yet have an undercurrent of fear for her? She was utterly frank, perfectly straightforward, to all appearances, yet—probably influenced by what I knew—I couldn’t believe in her.