Only the maid might have known of his fatal attack, and she had not. For he had apparently merely felt faint at first and had called to the girl as she passed his door to hand him his bottle of smelling salts. The girl had done so, had asked if he wanted anything else, had been assured that he didn’t. He was lying, she’d said, on a sort of couch, drawn up to the windows so he could read. He had made no complaint, seemed no worse than usual. The girl had gone on about her work downstairs.

There were no sounds. He hadn’t rung the bell on the table beside him.

It was perhaps an hour after that that the maid returned and found he was dead.

Miss Wiggenhorn paused again and Susan waited. There was nothing, certainly, in the recital so far to suggest the thing that Miss Wiggenhorn had implied and then denied.

“But you see,” said Miriam Wiggenhorn. “He died in great pain and struggle.”

“Struggle!” said Susan sharply.

“The pillows were tossed about, his clothing disheveled, there were—marks on his throat.”

It was very still. In the stillness someone walked heavily across the floor above and stopped.

“The doctor said it was all right. That with that particular trouble he was likely to gasp for breath at the last. He signed a certificate at once. Mind you, Miss Dare, I’m not saying there was murder done.”

“Whom do you suspect?” said Susan bluntly.

Miriam Wiggenhorn did not reply directly. Instead she put down her embroidery with an air of decision and turned to face Susan.

“I only want you to stay here for a few days. To consider the thing. I want him to have died naturally, of course. But I cannot forget the—look of things. The marks on his throat. The doctor says he made them himself—clutching—you see?—for air. I don’t suspect anyone. There is no one to suspect. Durrie and I. A cook who has been with us for years. A maid who is—too stupid in the first place; and has no motive.”

“The nurse?”

“The nurse was devoted to her patient. And he to her. She is a sweet, charming young woman. As you will see.”

“Did anyone profit directly by your uncle’s death?”

“You mean money and property? Yes, of course. He left his property and money—all his possessions, equally divided between Durrie and me. We were like children to him. He was only a moderately wealthy man. His will permits us to live on in exactly the same manner. There’s no motive at all.”

“But still you feel he was murdered?”

“I feel that I want to be sure he was not. That is all.”

There were footsteps overhead again and then someone was running down the stairway in the hall beyond. Miss Wiggenhorn said: “There’s Durrie now.”