at the quiet refinement of a more than well-to-do home.

On a desk at one end of the long room was a typewriter. Kennedy
rose. There was not a sound of any one in either the hallway or
the adjoining rooms. A moment later he was bending quietly over
the typewriter in the corner, running off a series of characters
on a sheet of paper. A sound of a closing door upstairs, and he
quickly jammed the paper into his pocket, retraced his steps, and
was sitting quietly opposite me again.

Mrs. Maitland was a tall, perfectly formed woman of baffling age,
but with the impression of both youth and maturity which was very
fascinating. She was calmer now, and although she seemed to be of
anything but a hysterical nature, it was quite evident that her
nervousness was due to much more than the shock of the recent
tragic event, great as that must have been. It may have been that
I recalled the words of the note, "Dr. Ross has told me the nature
of your illness," but I fancied that she had been suffering from
some nervous trouble.

"There is no use prolonging our introduction, Mrs. Maitland,"
began Kennedy. "We have called because the authorities are not yet
fully convinced that Mr. Maitland committed suicide."

It was evident that she had seen the note, at least. "Not a
suicide?" she repeated, looking from one to the other of us.

"Mr. Masterson on the wire, ma'am," whispered a maid. "Do you wish
to speak to him? He begged to say that he did not wish to intrude,
but he felt that if there--"