“We have no secrets here,” said Whitmark. “At least, none that are any business of a detective.”

“That’s all right, Ted,” said Dorothy, laying a hand on his arm and giving him a kind smile. “There’s gin in the kitchen. Why not mix us cocktails while Mr. Bell reports?”

Ted Whitmark didn’t like it but he had no choice but to exit, which he did with a grave “Don’t be keeping her too long, Bell. The poor girl is still recovering from the shock of her father’s death.”

“This will just take a minute,” Bell assured him.

Dorothy slid the pocket doors shut. “Thank you. Ted gets flatteringly jealous.”

“I imagine,” said Bell, “he has many good qualities to have captured your hand.”

She looked Bell straight in the face. “I am not rushing into anything,” she informed him in what the tall detective could not help but interpret as a blunt and flattering statement of interest from a very appealing woman.

“What line is Ted in?” Bell asked, diplomatically changing the subject.

“Ted sells foodstuffs to the Navy. In fact, he’s leaving soon for San Francisco to get ready to provision the Great White Fleet when it arrives. Are you married, Mr. Bell?”

“I am engaged.”

An unreadable smile danced across her beautiful lips. “Pity.”

“To be perfectly honest,” said Bell, “it is not a pity. I am a very lucky man.”

“Perfect honesty is a fine quality in a man. Are you visiting today for more important reasons than to not flirt with me?”

Bell took out the fountain pen. “Do you recognize this?”

Her face clouded. “Of course. That’s my father’s pen. I gave it to him for his birthday.”

Bell handed it to her. “You may as well hold on to it, then. I took it from his desk.”

“Why?”

“To confirm that he had used it to write his letter.”

“The so-called suicide letter? Anyone could have written that.”

“Not quite anyone. Either your father or a skillful forger.”

“You know my position on that. It is not possible that he killed himself.”

“I will keep looking.”

“What about the paper the letter was written on?”

“It was his.”

“I see . . . And the ink!” she said, suddenly eager. “How do we know it was written with the same ink as in his pen? Perhaps it wasn’t this pen. I bought it in a stationer’s shop. The Waterman Company must sell thousands.”

“I’ve have already given samples of the ink in this pen and on the letter to a chemistry laboratory to ascertain whether the ink is different.”

“Thank you,” she said, her face falling. “It’s not likely, is it?”

“I’m afraid not, Dorothy.”

“But if it is his ink, it still doesn’t prove he wrote that letter.”

“Not beyond all doubt,” Bell agreed. “But I must tell you frankly that while each of these facts must be investigated, they are not likely to give us a definitive answer.”

“What will?” she asked. She seemed suddenly bewildered. Tears glinted in her eyes.