I suppose a more conscientious nature would have hesitated to aspire to a girl set apart by a sudden acquisition of great wealth, but I was too deeply in love to think of that. I had a competent income myself, and I should have been glad to marry Alma Remsen had she been penniless, but all those considerations were as nothing to the all-absorbing thought of how I loved her. She was so appealing as she raised her eyes to mine, when she greeted me, and her sweet face was so wistful, that it was all I could do to keep from grabbing her up in my arms and carrying her off. As it was, I took her hand and made conventional inquiries, the while devouring her with my eyes. I think she sensed my restraint, for her handclasp was friendly, even trustful, and we sat down together on a porch settee. “You’re a frequent caller, Mr. Moore,” she said, almost gaily. “I’m sorry I was so unsatisfactory on the occasion of your other visit; I’ll try to do better this time.” I looked at her in some apprehension. I felt sure her light manner was assumed, to cover the depths of worry and anxiety that, it seemed to me, showed themselves in her dark eyes. “I don’t want to bother you too much, Miss Remsen,” Keeley said, “but you can be a real help, if you choose.” “Of course I choose. Ask me anything you like—I’ll answer.” She gave a little smile and tossed her head with a pretty gesture. Both the Merivales had disappeared. I had an uncanny feeling that they were watching from behind some window curtain, but I had no real reason for this. The victrola had ceased its music—doubtless Katy had turned it off. “It’s about that last call you made on your uncle,” Keeley proceeded, and I could see he was watching her closely, though he seemed not to do so. “It was the last time you saw him alive, was it not? That Tuesday afternoon?” “Yes,” said Alma, in a quiet, steady voice. “Yes, that was the last time.” “What did you go there for?” “On no especial errand; only to see him. I always go over two or three times a week, or thereabouts.” “And, according to Mr. March, you raised a window in your uncle’s sitting room, thereby leaving your fingerprints on the white enamel paint?” “So Mr. March told me. I know little of fingerprints—I mean as evidence—but I well know how they mar white paint. I am a tidy housekeeper, and I am continually at war with fingerprints on white paint.” I glanced around the porch and looked through the window into the living room. Everything was immaculate and I could well believe that the girl made a fetish of tidiness. “Yes. Then it scarcely seems like you to have your hands in such condition that they would leave marks on the window frame.”