I felt faint toward the end, and someone caught my arm and steadied me; but not until it was over did I see who it was. It was the detective, Hopper.

That was on Sunday, and on Monday afternoon Dwight Elliott brought a young lawyer from town to read the will, explaining that as he participated to a small extent he had not drawn it himself.

The will had been drawn four years ago, and it was what might have been expected. There was a considerable sum left to charity, there were bequests to all the servants based on length of service, there was twenty thousand dollars left to “my friend and relative, Dwight Elliott, in token of his long friendship to me,” and there was a codicil, recently added, leaving me five thousand dollars and a diamond bracelet I had always admired.

There was only one mention of Bessie. She was left one dollar, with the statement that she had been already “amply provided for.” The residue went to Tony without reservation.

I had not cried since Maud’s death. The shock had been too great, but I shed tears that night over the bequest to me. Hilda, herself red-eyed and stricken, found me weeping when she came into my room after I had gone to bed.

She stood, neat in her black dress and black silk apron, just inside my door. “What am I to do with her things, Miss Pat?” she inquired.

“I don’t know, Hilda. I suppose they’ll have to be appraised. Better leave them out until we know. Hilda, tell me about that night. Was she all right when you left her?”

“She was in bed. She looked all right, except I thought she was excited. I asked her if she wanted her sleeping tablet, but she said not yet. She’d take it later. But she put out the light before I could straighten her bed. I think maybe she was partly dressed already. She didn’t seem to want me to go near her.”

“Did you notice anything different about the room?”

“Well,” she said slowly, “there was a big brown envelope on the table beside her. It was open. I thought she’d just put it down. I haven’t seen it since.”

That was the picture we had by the evening of the fourth day after Maud’s death. She had gone to the playhouse, perhaps carrying Tony’s revolver. She had taken with her the envelope from the safe and her list of jewels. And she had met someone there, possibly a woman. What had happened after that was anybody’s guess, as Jim put it.

Then on Tuesday, the thirty-first of October, something happened which upset every theory the police had developed. That was when a hysterical Hilda brought me a letter for Tony, addressed in Maud’s big square hand. Bessie was there at the time, resentful at being left out of the will and threatening to make trouble.

“I know more than he thinks I know,” she said darkly. “If he has any idea that he can play me for a sucker he’d better think again.”