What could have caused it?  What could have snapped short the life thread of this strong, sound specimen of human vitality?  Dr. Harper could find no possible answer, and he was glad to hear Ferdinand’s voice as he announced the arrival of Dr. Marsden.  The two men held earnest consultation.

The newcomer was quite as much mystified as his colleague, and they marveled together.

“Autopsy, of course,” said Marsden, finally; “the widow must be brought to consent.  Why does she object so strongly?”

“I don’t know of any reason except the usual dislike the members of the family feel toward it.  I’ve no doubt she will agree, when you advise it.”

Eunice Embury did agree, but it was only after the strenuous insistence of Dr. Marsden.

She flew into a rage at first, and the doctor, who was unacquainted with her, wondered at her fiery exhibition of temper.

And, but for the arrival of Mason Elliott on the scene, she might have resisted longer.

Elliott had telephoned, wishing to consult Embury on some matter, and Ferdinand’s incoherent and emotional words had brought out the facts, so of course Elliott had come right over to the house.

“What is it, Eunice?” he asked, as he entered, seeing her fiercely quarreling with the doctors.  “Let me help you—­advise you.  Poor child, you ought to be in bed.”

His kindly, assertive voice calmed her, and turning her sad eyes to him, she moaned, plaintively, “Don’t let them do it—­they mustn’t do it.”

“Do what?  “Elliott turned to the doctors, and soon was listening to the whole strange story.

“Certainly an autopsy!” he declared; “why, it’s the only thing to do.  Hush, Eunice, make no further objection.  It’s absolutely necessary.  Give your consent at once.”

Almost as if hypnotized, Eunice Embury gave her consent, and the two doctors went away together.

“Tell me all about it,” said Elliott; “all you know—­” And then he saw how weak and unnerved Eunice was, and he quickly added, “No, not now.  Go and lie down for a time—­where’s Miss Ames?”

“Here,” and Aunt Abby reappeared from her room.  “Yes, go and lie down, Eunice; Maggie has made up our rooms, and your bed is in order.  Go, dear child.”

“I don’t want to,” and Eunice’s eyes looked unusually large and bright.  “I’m not the sort of woman who can cure everything by ‘lying down’!  I’d rather talk.  Mason, what happened to Sanford?”

“I don’t know, Eunice.  It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of.  If you want to talk, really, tell me what occurred last night.  Did you two have a quarrel?”

“Yes, we did—­” Eunice looked defiant rather than penitent.  “But that couldn’t have done it!  I mean, we didn’t quarrel so violently that San burst a blood-vessel—­or that sort of thing!”

“Of course not; in that case the doctors would know.  That’s the queerest thing to me.  A man dies, and two first-class physicians can’t say what killed him!”