“Oh, no!” Lockwood returned. “Certainly not for that. Indeed, the motive is the greatest mystery of all. We could perhaps imagine a motive for murder—whether it was robbery, or some brute of ‘the other faction’ or some old enemy of whom we know nothing. But for suicide, though I am sure it was that, I can think of no motive whatever.” “Nor I,” said Mrs. Bates. “I knew him better than any of you, and I know—I know for a certainty, that he was a happy man. That he looked forward eagerly to his marriage with me, that he was happy in the thought of his Presidency—that he hadn’t a real trouble in the world.” “The other faction,” began Mrs. Peyton. “No,” said Mrs. Bates, firmly. “He knew he was doing his duty, upholding the principles and tradition of his College, and the other faction did not worry him. He was too big-minded, too broad-visioned to allow that to trouble him.” “I think you’re quite right, Mrs. Bates,” Lockwood agreed; “but granting it was suicide, what do you think was the cause?” “That’s just it,” she declared; “I don’t think it was suicide, I know it couldn’t have been. He was too happy, too good, too fine, to do such a thing, even if he had had a reason. And then, what did he do it with?” “Morton imagines a secret entrance of some sort,” said Lockwood. “If there is one, the robber could have come in afterward, and could have carried off the weapon—” “Hush, Gordon,” said Mrs. Bates, sternly. “That’s too absurd! If it had been suicide—which it wasn’t—why under heaven would a burglar coming in later, take away the weapon?” “To save himself,” said Lockwood, shortly. “So he wouldn’t be suspected of the greater crime.” “Nonsense!” said Mrs. Peyton, irately; “I never heard such rubbish! And, in the first place, there’s no secret entrance to the study. I haven’t swept and dusted and vacuum-cleaned that place all these years without knowing that! Yes, and had the room redecorated and refloored, and—Oh, I know every inch of it! There’s no possible chance of a secret entrance. Who built it and when and why? Not Doctor Waring. His life’s always been an open book. Never has he had any secret errands, any callers whom I didn’t know, any matters on which he was silent or uncommunicative. Until his engagement to Mrs. Bates, he hadn’t a ripple in his quiet life, and that he told me about as soon as it occurred.” Mrs. Peyton looked squarely at Doctor Waring’s fiancee, as if to imply a complete knowledge of the courtship, as well as an intimate knowledge of the Doctor’s life. “That’s true,” Lockwood said. “He was a man without secrets. He was always willing I should open his mail, and there was never a letter that I did not know about.” Yet even as he spoke, the man remembered the crumpled paper he had taken from the waste basket, and he felt it in his pocket, though he made no sign. “Oh, people, is my aunt here?” It was Pinky Payne, who, all excitement, came running in. “I’ve just heard, and I want to see Aunt Emily.”