There was no tea in sight, so Susan said no, and thought Miss Wiggenhorn looked disappointed. “Now then, Miss Dare, I daresay you want to know exactly why I asked you to come here. I heard of you, you see, from John Van Dusen, our family lawyer. I believe he is acquainted with a woman for whom you did—er—something of the kind. A Mrs. Lasher.” She picked up some embroidery hoops and then paused to glance quickly at Susan over them. Or at least, so Susan thought.

“Yes.”

“Yes. Well, at any rate, when things—owing to the confusion—to my own wish rather”—she floundered, threading a needle with care, and said: “So John said call in Miss Dare. Let her look around.”

“Perhaps you’d better tell me just what it is about. I have only your note asking me to come. I ought to tell you that I’m not a detective, but a writer of mystery stories. And that I’m not at all sure of being able to help you.”

“I think that’s quite sufficient. I mean—Mrs. Lasher—Mr. Van Dusen—you see, Miss Dare, this is the trouble.” She made a careful and intricate stitch, took a breath and said: “My uncle, Keller Wiggenhorn, died a few days ago. He was buried yesterday. And I want to make sure he—died a natural death.”

“You mean you think he was murdered?”

“Oh, dear, no.”

“Then what do you mean?”

Mirian Wiggenhorn ate a chocolate cream thoughtfully. Then she said: “I think I’d better tell you the whole story. I’ll tell it briefly.”

And denuded of Miss Wiggenhorn’s panting breaths and hesitation it was certainly a brief enough story. Keller Wiggenhorn had been ailing for some time, owing to a serious heart weakness. Had been so ill in fact that for some three months he’d been obliged to have the care of a trained nurse. He had died suddenly, when alone. The doctor was not surprised; it was to be expected, he said. The nurse was not surprised although she regretted that she had not been with her patient when he was taken with the last and fatal attack. No one had known it even, although it had happened during the daytime. But the nurse had been out in the garden, taking her rightful air and exercise. Durrie had been in town (“Durrie?” said Susan. “My brother,” said Miss Wiggenhorn. “Younger than I. We have lived with my uncle for many years.”)—Durrie had been in town; the cook busy in the kitchen, and Miss Wiggenhorn herself had been in the kitchen. “Putting up pickled peaches,” said Miss Wiggenhorn. “Uncle was very fond of them.”