“Surely,” said Alma. “Will you question her?” “Miss Remsen was at home all Wednesday evening?” he said. “Yes, sir,” the woman’s voice was respectful but far from servile. “And all night?” “Oh, yes, sir, of course.” “Why of course?” “Because,” Mrs. Merivale spoke patiently, as if to a dull child, “if she was in all evening she would scarcely go out later, sir.” “You are her caretaker?” “I have been her nurse ever since she was born. I am now her housekeeper and I take all care of her.” There was something fine about Mrs. Merivale. She gave an impression of one who was tolerating the inquiries of a lot of zanies who must be humoured because they represented the law. “You live in an island home?” “Yes.” Alma took up the answering again, seeing no reason why Mrs. Merivale should be her spokesman save by way of corroboration. Then Hart asked the same questions he had asked her before, as to her relations with her uncle, her expectations at his death, and to all the girl replied with a gentle, demure manner that won the admiration and respect of all present. At last Hart said, plainly: “I regret the necessity of this, Miss Remsen, but it must be said. You are the one to benefit by the decease of your uncle.” “Yes,” she looked at him steadily, with no sign of fear, but again I detected that slight quiver of her eyelid, and wondered what it portended. “You would have opportunity to reach his room.” “Opportunity?” she looked a little bewildered, and I noticed the lines around the firm set lips of Mrs. Merivale grow even tenser. “Yes, you possess a latchkey to this house.” “Oh, that!” Alma smiled and I felt sure it was a smile of relief. “Yes, I have always had a latchkey. My uncle gave it to me.” “When?” “Oh, years ago. When I lived here. Then when I went to live on the island he bade me keep it so I could come over whenever I chose and let myself in.” “Yes. That gave you what we call opportunity.” “And my desire to inherit his estate gave me motive!” she wasn’t quite smiling, but nearly. “Well, Mr. Coroner, that may be true, but I didn’t come over here with my latchkey and kill my uncle and trick out his bed with flowers. The motive was not strong enough and the opportunity was negligible. I hope you can find my uncle’s murderer, but it was not I.” There was something in her simple plain speech that carried conviction. Had I been one of those jurymen I could not have helped believing in the sincerity of that clear, sweet young voice that rang true in its every cadence. “Then, Miss Remsen, you know nothing of the missing waistcoats?” “Missing waistcoats?” she repeated, and now I saw that eyelid quiver pitifully. “Yes, don’t repeat my words to gain time. Where are those two waistcoats that disappeared the night your uncle was killed?” “I haven’t the slightest idea.” “Then I will tell you. They have been found, and they were found under a settee in your boathouse——” “My boathouse!”