That was the situation by the middle of October of last year. The Cloisters had been entered twice, Don Morgan had been murdered in the playhouse. Evans had disappeared, and Bessie had been shot at and barely escaped with her life. To the people who knew something of the inside story there were a dozen possible explanations, but the general public was bewildered. It is not surprising that the theory of a lunatic at large began to grow.

I think Maud herself inclined to that opinion.

“There might have been a reason for Mr. Morgan’s death,” she said, looking white and tired. “A good many people seem to have had reason to want him out of the way. But Evans, and now Bessie—”

I would have sworn that the effect on her was one of pure bewilderment. She would sit for hours, her big hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on nothing. Once a day she made a slow pilgrimage to Bessie’s bedroom, where Bessie lay resentful among her pillows. I think Maud dreaded those visits. Amy said her pulse would be more rapid after them. And Bessie would be uncompromisingly rude. I went with her one morning. Bessie was up, lying on a chaise longue, with the usual movie magazine in her hand.

The nurse had to unlock the door to admit us, and Maud made a protest. “My dear, do you think it is necessary to keep your door locked all the time? After all, we are responsible for you.”

Bessie looked at her coldly. “I’m not trusting anybody around this place,” she said.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand that, Bessie.”

“I think you do. If you don’t, ask Tony.”

“Tony? Surely you don’t believe—”

“Listen,” said Bessie. “Tony’s got plenty of reason to want me out of the way. Who else gives a damn?”

“What reason, Bessie?”

She looked at me. “I can see one,” she said. “The other—better let it go at that. I’m not talking, unless I have to.”

It was not pretty, nor was Bessie just then. I can find excuses for her now. She was genuinely terrified and for the time at least helpless. She had walked into a trap, and she could see no way out. As for Maud, I do not believe until then she had even considered that Tony might be involved in the shooting.

Later on, however, she sent for Dwight Elliott, and asked me to be present at the interview.

“I want to be sure he tells me the truth. All the truth,” she said. “I don’t want him trying to save my feelings.”

But Mr. Elliott showed no indication of trying to save her feelings. He tried to evade her at first. Of course, nobody believed Tony had shot at Bessie. But she was too shrewd for him. In the end she learned about the missing gun, and Tony’s lack of an alibi.

“One trouble,” he said, sitting thin and distinguished beside her bed, “is that Tony changed his usual procedure that night. Normally if he’s not coming home for dinner he plays squash at the club. That day he didn’t. He went back to his office for an hour. After that he went to the public library.”