She said it with an air of vexation, as though she felt slighted.  In spite of her evident anxiety to know about the tragedy, however, I did not detect the depth of feeling that Helen Grey had shown.  In fact, the thoughtfulness of Fleming Lewis almost led me to believe that it was he, rather than Mansfield, for whom she really cared.

We chatted a few minutes, as Kennedy told what little we had discovered.  He said nothing about the spangle.

“By the way,” remarked Craig, at length, “I would very much like to have a look at that famous mushroom-cellar of yours.”

For the first time she seemed momentarily to lose her poise.

“I’ve always had a great interest in mushrooms,” she explained, hastily.  “You—­you do not think it could be the mushrooms—­that have caused Mr. Mansfield’s illness, do you?”

Kennedy passed off the remark as best he could under the circumstances.  Though she was not satisfied with his answer, she could not very well refuse his request, and a few minutes later we were down in the dark dampness of the cellar back of the house, where Kennedy set to work on a most exhaustive search.

I could see by the expression on his face, as his search progressed, that he was not finding what he had expected.  Clearly, the fungi before us were the common edible mushrooms.  The upper side of each, as he examined it, was white, with brownish fibrils, or scales.  Underneath, some were a beautiful salmon-pink, changing gradually to almost black in the older specimens.  The stem was colored like the top.  But search as he might for what I knew he was after, in none did he find anything but a small or more often no swelling at the base, and no “cup,” as it is called.

As he rose after his thorough search, I saw that he was completely baffled.

“I hardly thought you’d find anything,” Miss Hargrave remarked, noticing the look on his face.  “I’ve always been very careful of my mushrooms.”

“You have certainly succeeded admirably,” he complimented.

“I hope you will let me know how Mr. Mansfield is,” she said, as we started back toward our car on the road.  “I can’t tell you how I feel.  To think that, after a party which he gave for me, he should be taken ill, and not only that but be robbed at the same time!  Really, you must let me know—­or I shall have to come up to the city.”

It seemed gratuitous for Kennedy to promise, for I knew that he was by no means through with her yet; but she thanked him, and we turned back toward town.

“Well,” I remarked, as we reeled off the miles quickly, “I must say that that puts me all at sea again.  I had convinced myself that it was a case of mushroom poisoning.  What can you do now?”

“Do?” he echoed.  “Why, go on.  This puts us a step nearer the truth, that’s all.”

Far from being discouraged at what had seemed to me to be a fatal blow to the theory, he now seemed to be actually encouraged.  Back in the city, he lost no time in getting to the laboratory again.