“It is about my brother’s death that I wished to see you.”  Mrs. Pendleton spoke earnestly, drawing her chair closer with the feeling that the man before her had sufficient intelligence to give her a sympathetic hearing.

“So I gathered from your card.  It seems a very sad case.  Sergeant Pengowan’s report has just reached me.  Anything I can do for you—­” Inspector Dawfield pretended to occupy himself in cutting open an official envelope with scrupulous care.

“Sergeant Pengowan regards it as a case of suicide, does he not?” asked Mrs. Pendleton rigidly.

“Well, yes, I believe he does,” replied Inspector Dawfield.  “There is no doubt on that point, is there?  Your brother’s revolver was lying near him, and the door was locked on the inside.”

“There is the greatest doubt in my mind,” returned Mrs. Pendleton vehemently.  “I do not—­I cannot believe that my brother has taken his own life.  In fact, I am sure he did not.”

On hearing these words Inspector Dawfield looked at his visitor again, with something more than surprise in his eyes, then he pulled a document from a pigeonhole and hastily scanned it.

“Pengowan’s report states quite definitely that it is suicide,” he said as he replaced it.  “In the face of that, do you think—­”

“I think my brother has been murdered,” she said in a decided voice.

“This is a very grave statement to make, Mrs. Pendleton.  Have you anything to support it?  Anything which has not been brought to light, I mean?”

Mrs. Pendleton proceeded to give her reasons.  She had thought over what she was going to say as she came along, and she spoke with growing conviction, intensified by the sight of the earnest attentive face before her.  The incident of the person she had detected looking through the door took on a new significance as she related it.  By her constant association of the eyes with the disliked face of her brother’s servant, she had unconsciously reached the conclusion that she had all along recognized the eavesdropper as Thalassa.

“You say your brother was talking about some family matters at the time?” asked Inspector Dawfield, as she related that part of her story.

“Yes,” responded Mrs. Pendleton.  She had repressed all mention of her brother’s announcement of his daughter’s illegitimacy, but afterwards she tried to persuade herself that it slipped her memory at the time.

“It’s common enough for servants to listen at doors,” remarked Inspector Dawfield.  “In this case it may seem to have a sinister interpretation because of what happened afterwards.  How long has this man been in your brother’s employ?”

“A number of years, I believe,” replied Mrs. Pendleton.  “But he has a wicked face,” she added hastily, as though that fact cancelled a record of lengthy service.  “I took a dislike to him as soon as I saw him.”

Inspector Dawfield veiled a slight smile with a sheet of foolscap.  “Have you any other reason for suspecting him?”