"All of you go outa this room," he directed, "I'll take charge of it till the police get here. This is a mighty strange case, an' I can't see any light as to how it could 'a' happened. But it did happen--poor Mis' Pell is done for, an' I'll stand guard over her body till somebody with more authority gets here. You, Agnes, be ready to wait on the door, and Polly, you look after Miss Iris. Campbell, you telephone like I told you----" Submissively they all obeyed him. Iris, with an effort, rose from the couch and went out to the living room. There, she sat in a big chair, and stared at nothing, until Polly, watching, became alarmed. "Be ca'm, now, Miss Iris, do be ca'm," she urged, stupidly. "Hush up, Polly, I am calm. Don't say such foolish things. You know I'm not the sort to faint or fly into hysterics." "I know you ain't, Miss Iris, but you're so still and queer like----" "Who wouldn't be? Polly, explain it. What happened to Aunt Ursula--do _you_ think?" "Miss Iris, they ain't no explanation. I'm a quick thinker, I am, and I tell you, there ain't no way that murderer--for there sure was a murderer--could 'a' got in that room or got out, with that door locked." "Then she killed herself?" "No, she couldn't possibly 'a' done that. You know yourself, she couldn't. When she screamed 'Thieves!' the thieves was there. Now, how did they get away? They ain't no secret way in an' out, that I know. I've lived in this house too many years to be fooled about its buildin'. It's a mystery, that's what it is, a mystery." "Will it ever be solved?" and Iris looked at old Polly as if inquiring of a sibyl. "Land, child, how do I know? I ain't no seer. I s'pose some of those smart detectives can make it out, but it's beyond me!" "Oh, Polly, they won't have detectives, will they?" "Sure they will, Miss Iris; they'll have to." "Now, I'm through with the telephone," said Campbell, reappearing. "Shall I get New York for you, Miss?" "No," said Iris, rising, "I'll get the call myself." CHAPTER III THE EVIDENCE OF THE CHECKBOOK Winston Bannard's apartments in New York were comfortable though not luxurious. The Caxton Annex catered to young bachelors who were not millionaires but who liked to live pleasantly, and Bannard had been contentedly ensconced there ever since he had left his aunt's home. He had always been glad he had made the move, for the city life was far more to his liking than the village ways of Berrien, and if his law practice could not be called enormous, it was growing and he had developed some real ability. Of late he had fallen in with a crowd of men much richer than himself, and association with them had led to extravagance in the matter of cards for high stakes, motors of high cost, and high living generally. The high cost of living is undeniable, and Bannard not infrequently found himself in financial difficulties of more or less depth and importance.