“No. She seemed entirely calm and went back to the kitchen without saying anything.” “Was the door to the library closed?” “Yes.” “There’s another door at the end of the hallway that shuts off the kitchen, isn’t there?” “There are two doors. The dining room’s between.” “So if the library door and the two other doors were closed things could happen in this room without anybody hearing?” Florence nodded. “Then what did you do when you came into the house?” “I came into the library and saw this,” she answered. “Thank you, Miss Ballau,” Norton smiled at her. “That will be all for the present. I suggest you lie down.” To the man at the door he added, “Call the housekeeper.” Florence stood up and De Medici came to her side. His eyes had avoided her during the questioning. But he pressed her arm eagerly with his fingers now. The lieutenant was watching. He felt certain of this. So he could say nothing now. He felt her draw back as they came to the door, beyond which rose a babble of excited voices. “If you please, Mr. De Medici,” Norton’s voice called, “will you remain while we examine the housekeeper?” “I’ll be all right,” she murmured close to him. He opened the door and watched her as she walked slowly and silently down the corridor. Jane, the housekeeper, entered and was motioned to the chair in which Florence had sat. “What’s your name?” Lieutenant Norton asked. The woman’s eyes were reddened with crying. Her voice was indistinct. “Jane Mayfield,” she answered. “How long have you worked for Mr. Ballau?” “Ever since he’s been in New York—about fifteen years, I think.” “How old are you?” “Fifty-four.” The detective paused as the woman began again to weep. At length he resumed kindly. “When did you first find out Mr. Ballau was dead?” “I let Miss Ballau in and went back to the kitchen to finish the sandwiches for the supper and then I heard her scream. I came running out. She was standing in the door screaming that her father had been murdered.” “Just what did she say?” “I don’t remember. It was something about her father being murdered.” “How long after you let her in did you hear Miss Ballau scream?” “It was only a minute or two, because I hadn’t started with the sandwiches. I was just beginning to cut them again when I heard her scream.” “Thank you,” said the detective, “that will be all.” Jane walked from the room, her eyes avoiding the figure of Ballau stretched at her feet as she passed. “And now, doctor, and you, Mr. De Medici,” Norton resumed in his natural voice, “we’ll see, I think, that any further investigation will bear out my impression that Mr. Ballau killed himself.” “Impossible,” murmured De Medici.