“My God, man, I don’t know! I’ve thought and thought, but I don’t know!”
“Health?”
“She seemed well. She was never ill, never complained.”
“Any recent quarrels?”
“We never quarreled—never in the year and a half we have been married!”
“Financial trouble?”
He shook his head without speaking or looking up from the floor.
“Any other worry?”
He shook his head again.
“Did the maid notice anything peculiar in her behavior last night?”
“Nothing.”
“Have you looked through her things—for papers, letters?”
“Yes—and found nothing.” He raised his head to look at me. “The only thing”—he spoke very slowly—“there was a little pile of ashes in the grate in her room, as if she had burned papers, or letters.”
Correl held nothing more for me—nothing I could get out of him, anyway.
The girl at the front gate in Alfred Banbrock’s Shoreman’s Building suite told me he was in conference . I sent my name in. He came out of conference to take me into his private office. His tired face was full of questions.