But there was nothing
mysterious about it. It was just typical in all its surroundings
of the first decade of the twentieth century in a great,
artificial city--a lonely death of a great man surrounded by all
that money could buy.
We had read of his ward, too, the beautiful Miss Eveline Bisbee,
a distant relation. As under the heat of the room and her
excitement, she raised her veil, we were very much interested in
her. At least, I am sure that even Kennedy had by this time
completely forgotten the lecture on toxins.
"There is something about my guardian's death," she began in a
low and tremulous voice, "that I am sure will bear investigating.
It may be only a woman's foolish fears, but--I haven't told this
to a soul till now, except Mrs. Fletcher. My guardian had, as you
perhaps know, spent his summer at his country place at Bisbee
Hall, New Jersey, from which he returned rather suddenly about a
week ago. Our friends thought it merely a strange whim that he
should return to the city before the summer was fairly over, but
it was not. The day before he returned, his gardener fell sick of
typhoid. That decided Mr. Bisbee to return to the city on the
following day. Imagine his consternation to find his valet
stricken the very next morning. Of course they motored to New
York immediately, then he wired to me at Newport, and together we
opened his apartment at the Louis Quinze.
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