“Do they—your family—know why I am here?” asked Susan.

“Oh, yes,” said Miriam Wiggenhorn readily, and Durrie entered the room.

He was certainly much younger than his sister; young and slender with light-brown hair that had a crisp wave which any woman might have envied, light gray-blue eyes and a handsome profile which just escaped being pretty. He looked Susan over from under thick blond eyelashes and said, “How do you do,” shortly.

“Rosina’s out for a walk,” said Miriam. “Were you looking for her?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not at all. That is—have you seen the book I was reading?”

“What book?” asked Miriam. In the midst of the little distraction of explaining and searching Durrie looked up. “You write, don’t you, Miss Dare?”

“Yes,” said Susan prepared to be modest. It wasn’t necessary. He said “Humph” with definite disfavor, took up a book from another table and went away.

“Dinner’s at seven,” said Miss Wiggenhorn. “I’ll take you to your room.”

Left to herself in an unaired guest room, Susan sat down and surveyed the worn red roses of a Brussels carpet blankly.

Marks on a dead man’s throat. A doctor’s certificate. No motives. No murder. Yet she was there.

She rose and went to the window. Nottingham lace curtains did not obscure the depressing view of a bare, cold March garden. As she looked, however, a woman came into view, walking with her head bent against the wind. She wore a dark cape which, when the wind blew, showed glimpses of a scarlet lining, and paused at a fountain as if waiting for something—paused and looked up suddenly at the house. Despite the gathering gloom Susan could see the outline of her face; a darkly beautiful face with a rich, full mouth. Rosina that would be. The nurse. A sweet and charming young woman, Miriam had said.

Quite suddenly another figure was beside the nurse, coming swiftly from some shrub-masked path. It was Durrie, with no hat on and the collar of his coat turned up around his ears. He spoke to the woman briefly, they both turned to look directly upward at Susan’s window and almost immediately moved away. They couldn’t have seen her, of course; there was no light in her room. She pulled down the shade, and rang briskly for the maid.

Miss Wiggenhorn had said, leaving her, to question and explore as she liked.

And the little maid, Susan thought, had been prepared, for she answered her questions directly and fully and eyed her with a timorous look.

It was all exactly as Miss Wiggenhorn had already told her. The maid had heard Mr. Wiggenhorn call her, had entered the room and handed him his smelling salts.

“But didn’t you think that perhaps he was having or about to have an attack?”