The maid hadn’t. “He always liked to have things near him; his books, his spectacles; a glass of water; his smelling salts. I never thought anything about it.”

“What did you do then?”

“I asked if there was anything else. The water glass was empty and he said to fill it and I did.”

“Who found him? I mean after he was dead.”

The girl’s face paled a little but her eyes did not blink.

“I did. Dreadful, he looked. Everything was tossed about. Glass on the floor. Books—bottle with all the smelling salts spilled out of it. It looked as if he’d grabbed hold of the table cover and just jerked the whole thing off at once. He must have struggled—for a moment or two. I didn’t hear anything at all. But then we’d shut the doors everywhere.”

“Why? Was that customary?”

“I mean the doors to the back part of the house. Miss Miriam was making pickled peaches in the kitchen and the smell was all over the house. You know—vinegar and spices. So strong it was sort of sickening. The nurse said to shut the door of his bedroom.”

“The nurse? What is her name?”

“Miss Hunt. Miss Rosina Hunt.”

There was certainly something the girl wanted to tell—her plump face was bursting with it.

“I suppose Miss Hunt will be leaving soon?”

“She can’t leave too soon,” said the girl. “Not that she’s not treated me well enough. But she’s too bossy.”

“Bossy?”

“Snappy—as if she owned the place. And stubborn! Even with Miss Miriam. After all, it’s Miss Miriam’s house. Hers and Mr. Durrie’s.”

“Mr. Durrie is not married?”

“No, ma’am. Not him. Though he was engaged to be married once. But it didn’t last long.”

Susan said abruptly: “Will you show me the room in which Mr. Wiggenhorn died, please.”

But at the end of a good half hour spent in that chilly, huge bedroom Susan was little wiser than when she had entered it.

In the hall she met Miriam Wiggenhorn.

“Oh, you’ve been in his room?”

“Yes.”

“That was right—John Van Dusen will be here to dinner. If there’s anything—”

“There’s nothing,” said Susan, “yet.”

Dinner. So she was to see the lawyer who had suggested sending for her. And the nurse would be there too. Rosina.

Miriam, now in cherry silk, was in the drawing-room when, half an hour later, Susan went down. With her was the lawyer, John Van Dusen, a spare, gray little man of fifty or so, who lifted his eyebrows, bowed to Susan and looked as if he were stuffed with sawdust.