Margaret Langmore began her narrative. It was fully an hour before she
finished. Occasionally the detective asked a question, but for the
most part he sat back with his eyes closed, as if thinking of something
else.

"Now, Miss Langmore," he exclaimed, as he straightened up at the
conclusion of her recital, "whom do you suspect of this crime?"

"I suspect no one, sir."

"Have you any idea why this awful deed was committed?" The detective
had been on the point of saying "murder" but had checked himself.

"Not the least in the world."

"Some of the windows were, of course, open. What of the doors?"

"The front door and that to the side piazza were locked. The back door
was open."

"Then a person might have sneaked in by the back way?"

"I presume so."

"Your father was quite dead when you found him?" asked the detective
quickly.

"I--I--thought so." The girl began to choke up and sob. "It--it was
such a shock--I--I--" She could not go on.