though it was decidedly no part of her duty as one of the highest
paid employes of the Novella. But they all envied the popular
actress, and were ready to do anything for her. The next thing she
remembered was finishing the coiffure she was working on and going
to Miss Blaisdell. There lay the beautiful actress. The light in
the corridor had not been lighted yet, and it was dark. Her lips
and mouth seemed literally to shine. Agnes called her, but she did
not move; she touched her, but she was cold. Then she screamed and
fled. That was the last she remembered.

"The little writing-room," reasoned Kennedy as we left the poor
little hair-dresser quite exhausted by her narrative, "was next to
the sanctum of Millefleur, where they found that bottle of ether
phosphore and the oil of turpentine. Some one who knew of that
note or perhaps wrote it must have reasoned that an answer would
be written immediately. That person figured that the note would be
the next thing written and that the top envelope of the pile would
be used. That person knew of the deadly qualities of too much
phosphorised ether, and painted the gummed flap of the envelope
with several grains of it. The reasoning held good, for Agnes took
the top envelope with its poisoned flap to Miss Blaisdell. No,
there was no chance about that. It was all clever, quick
reasoning."

"But," I objected, "how about the oil of turpentine?"

"Simply to remove the traces of the poison. I think you will see
why that was attempted before we get through."

Kennedy would say no more, but I was content because I could see