The girl gave me one
long, steady look. I was afraid of Barbara Wallace's eyes. Then and
there I relinquished all idea of having her help in this inquiry. She
could have done it much better than I, attracted less attention--but no
matter. The awkward moment went by, however; I heaved a sigh of relief
as they carried their ferns on into the clubhouse, and Mrs. Vandeman
left me with gracious good-bys.

I had the luck to cover my first inquiry by getting a lift into town
from Mrs. Ormsby, young wife of the president of the First National.
Alone with me in her little electric, she answered every question I
cared to put, and said she would be careful to speak to no one of the
matter. Three others I caught on the wing, as it were, busy at blossom
festival affairs; the fete only one day off now, things were moving
fast. I glimpsed Dr. Bowman down town and thought he rather carefully
avoided seeing me. His wife was taking no part; the word went that she
was not able; but when I called at what had been the Wallace and was now
the Bowman home, I found the front door open and two ladies in the hall.

One of them, Laura Bowman herself, came flying out to meet me--or
rather, it seemed, to stop me, with a face of dismay.

"My mother's here, Mr. Boyne!" Her hand was clammy cold; she'd been
warned of me and my errand. "I don't want to take you through that way."

I stood passive, and let her do the saying.

"Around here," she faltered. "We can go in at the side door."

We skirted the house by a narrow walk; she was leading the way by this
other entrance, when, spread out over its low step, blocking our
progress, I saw a small Japanese woman ripping up a satin dress.

"Let us pass, Oomie."

"Wait. We can talk as well here," I checked her. We moved on a few
paces, out of earshot of the girl; but before I could put my questions,
she began with a sort of shattered vehemence to protest that Thomas
Gilbert's death was suicide.

"It was, Mr. Boyne. Anybody who knew the scourge Thomas had been to
those he must have loved in his queer, distorted way, and any one who
loved them, could believe he might take his own life."

"You speak freely, Mrs. Bowman," I said. "Then you hated the man?"

"Oh, I did! For years past I've never heard of a death without wondering
that God took other human beings and let him live. Now that he's killed
himself, it seems dreadful to me that suspicion should be cast on--"

"Mrs. Bowman," I interrupted. "T