CYNTHIA turned a flushed and tear-stained face toward Eleanor, as the latter entered the boudoir and approached her couch.
 
“Is it all over?” she asked, choking back a .
 
“Yes.” Eleanor lifted her black crêpe veil, and, pulling out the hatpins, removed her hat and handed it to Annette, who had followed her into the room. “Take my coat, too, Annette,” she directed, “then you need not wait.” As the servant left the room she pulled a low rocking-chair up to the couch on which Cynthia was lying, and placed her hand gently on the weeping girl’s shoulder. “Are you feeling better, dear?”
 
“A little better.” Cynthia wiped her eyes with a dry handkerchief which Annette had placed on her couch some moments before. “Oh, Eleanor, I am so bitterly ashamed of the scene I made downstairs.”
 
“You need not be.” Eleanor stroked the curly, fair hair back from Cynthia’s hot forehead with loving fingers. “It was a very painful scene, and Dr. Wallace’s tribute to Senator Carew, while beautiful, was harrowing. I am not surprised you fainted, dear.”
 
“Aunt Charlotte didn’t, and she was so to Uncle James.”
 
“Mrs. Winthrop had not been through your terrible experiences of Monday night. Consequently, she had the strength to bear to-day’s with outward composure.”
 
“Was it very dreadful at the ?”
 
“No, dear. The services at the grave were very simple, and, as the funeral was private, it attracted no spectators.”
 
“Did anyone accompany you?”
 
“Just the handful of people who were here for the house services.”
 
“Where is Aunt Charlotte?”
 
“She went to her room to lie down.”
 
Cynthia raised herself on her elbow and glanced searchingly about the pretty filled with its bird’s-eye furniture. The yellow wallpaper, with its wide border of pink roses, chintz curtains and hangings, cast a soft yellow glow, which was exceedingly becoming, as well as restful to the eye. The afternoon sunshine came through the long French windows which overlooked a broad .
 
“Eleanor, would you mind closing the door of my bedroom,” she asked, “and please first see that—that Blanche isn’t sitting there sewing.”
 
Eleanor glanced at Cynthia as she rose, crossed to the adjoining bedroom, and softly closed the door. “There is no one in your room,” she reported, on her return to her rocking-chair.
 
Cynthia settled back among her pillows with an air of satisfaction. “At last I have you to myself. First the trained nurse, whom I didn’t need, and then Aunt Charlotte, have always been hanging around, and I haven’t had a chance to ask you any questions.”
 
“What is it you wish to know?”
 
“Was there—was there—an ?” Noting Eleanor’s expression, she exclaimed hastily: “Now, Eleanor dear, don’t say I must not talk of Uncle James’ death. The nurse wouldn’t answer me when I on the subject; said I must not think of the tragedy, that it was bad for me. Such nonsense! I would have asked Aunt Charlotte, but she’s been so queer lately, not in the least like her own dear self.”
 
“Mrs. Winthrop is living under such great strain these days, Cynthia, it’s not surprising. Her brother dead—Philip very ill——”
 
“They told me he was better,” hastily jerked out Cynthia, with a startled look in her big, brown eyes.
 
“He is, now,” Eleanor hesitated. “The doctor at first thought he might develop brain fever, but I am told all danger of that is past.”
 
“What is the matter with him?” persisted Cynthia. “I asked the nurse what the trouble was, but she never told me. Was his attack also caused by the shock of Uncle James’ death?”
 
“Yes, from shock,” answered Eleanor, mechanically. “You must not blame your aunt if her manner is ; she is a very reserved woman and , above all things, letting herself go and breaking down.”
 
“Oh, I hope she will keep well, she has been so unhappy. I can’t bear to think of her suffering more, but,” she laid her hand pleadingly on Eleanor’s arm, “you haven’t answered my question about the autopsy.”
 
“Yes, they held one.”
 
“And what was discovered?” eagerly.
 
“That Senator Carew was well , and that his death was caused by a stab from the sharp-pointed letter file.”
 
Cynthia suddenly covered her eyes with her hand, and lay for some minutes without speaking. “Is Hamilton still in jail?” she questioned finally.
 
“Yes, he is being held for the inquest.”
 
“Inquest?” Cynthia glanced up, startled. “I thought the inquest was over.”
 
“No, it hasn’t been held yet.”
 
“But Uncle James was buried to-day.”
 
“The funeral could not be , Cynthia. The doctors who performed the autopsy will testify at the inquest.”
 
“But I thought it was always necessary to hold the inquest after a violent death.”
 
“It is usually, but in this case the inquest was postponed because you and Philip, two of the most important witnesses, were too ill to attend it.”
 
Cynthia closed and unclosed her fingers over her handkerchief spasmodically. “Are the detectives still hanging around the house?” she inquired.
 
“Yes.”
 
“It’s !” announced Cynthia, sitting upright, “to allow those men to on our grief and privacy. They have arrested Hamilton for the crime, and should leave us alone.”
 
“They do not think Hamilton guilty.”
 
“Whom—whom—do they suspect?” The question seemed forced from her.
 
“Mr. Brett hasn’t in me.”
 
“Mr. Brett?”
 
“He’s the detective in charge of the case.”
 
“Oh, is he the tall, fine-looking man I saw talking to Joshu............