“I—I don’t know. I didn’t see who did it.” “Are you sure, Miss? Better tell the truth.” “I tell you I didn’t see—I didn’t see anything! I had heard an alarm of fire, and I was wondering where it was.” “You didn’t get up and go to find out?” “No—no, I stayed where I was.” “Where were you?” “In the window-seat—in the den.” “Meaning the room where the shooting occurred?” “Yes. My father’s study.” “And from where you sat, you could see the whole affair?” “I might have—if I had looked—but I didn’t. I was reading.” “Thought you were wondering about the fire?” “Yes,” Maida was quite composed now. “I raised my eyes from my book when I heard the fire excitement.” “What sort of excitement?” “I heard people shouting, and I heard men running. I was just about to go out toward the north veranda, where the sounds came from, when I—— I can’t go on!” and Maida broke down and wept. “You must tell your story—maybe it’d be easier now than later. Can’t you go on, Miss Wheeler?” “There’s little to tell. I saw Mr. Appleby fall over sideways——” “Didn’t you hear the shot?” “No—yes—I don’t know.” Maida looked at her father, as if to gain help from his expression, but his face showed only agonized concern for her. “Dear child,” he said, “tell the truth. Tell just what you saw—or heard.” “I didn’t hear anything—I mean the noise from the people running to the fire so distracted my attention, I heard no shot or any sound in the room. I just saw Mr. Appleby fall over——” “You’re not giving us a straight story, Miss Wheeler,” said the detective, bluntly. “Seems to me you’d better begin all over.” “Seems to me you’d better cease questioning Miss Wheeler,” said Curtis Keefe, looking sympathetically at Maida; “she’s just about all in, and I think she’s entitled to some consideration.” “H’m. Pretty hard to find the right one to question. Mrs. Wheeler, now—I’d rather not trouble her too much.” “Talk to me,” said Allen. “I can tell you the facts, and you can draw your deductions afterward.” “Me, too,” said Keefe. “Ask us the hard questions, and then when you need to, inquire of the Wheelers. Remember, they’re under great nervous strain.” “Well, then,” Burdon seemed willing to take the advice, “you start in, Mr. Keefe. You’re Mr. Appleby’s secretary, I believe?” “Yes; we were on our way back to his home in Stockfield—we expected to go there to-morrow.” “You got any theory of the shooting?” “I’ve nothing to found a theory on. I was out at the garage helping to put out a small fire that had started there.” “How’d it start?” “I don’t know. In the excitement that followed, I never thought to inquire.” “Tell your story of the excitement.”