alone with one maid had not investigated. The house had been locked in the morning and apparently undisturbed. 

 Then, as clearly as I could, I related how, the night before, a shot had roused us; that my niece and I had investigated and found a body; that I did not know who the murdered man was until Mr. Jarvis from the club informed me, and that I knew of no reason why Mr. Arnold Armstrong should steal into his father’s house at night. I should have been glad to allow him entree there at any time. 

 “Have you reason to believe, Miss Innes,” the coroner asked, “that any member of your household, imagining Mr. Armstrong was a burglar, shot him in self-defense?” 

 “I have no reason for thinking so,” I said quietly. 

 “Your theory is that Mr. Armstrong was followed here by some enemy, and shot as he entered the house?” 

 “I don’t think I have a theory,” I said. “The thing that has puzzled me is why Mr. Armstrong should enter his father’s house two nights in succession, stealing in like a thief, when he needed only to ask entrance to be admitted.” 

 The coroner was a very silent man: he took some notes after this, but he seemed anxious to make the next train back to town. He set the inquest for the following Saturday, gave Mr. Jamieson, the younger of the two detectives, and the more intelligent looking, a few instructions, and, after gravely shaking hands with me and regretting the unfortunate affair, took his departure, accompanied by the other detective. 

 I was just beginning to breathe freely when Mr. Jamieson, who had been standing by the window, came over to me. 

 “The family consists of yourself alone, Miss Innes?” 

 “My niece is here,” I said. 

 “There is no one but yourself and your niece?” 

 “My nephew.” I had to moisten my lips. 

 “Oh, a nephew. I should like to see him, if he is here.” 

 “He is not here just now,” I said as quietly as I could. “I expect him—at any time.” 

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