"Did you ever see Mr. Phelps take any drugs—not habitually, but just before this sleep came on?"
Kennedy was seeking his information in a manner and tone that would cause as little offence as possible. "Oh, no," she hastened. "No, never—absolutely."
"You called in Dr. Forden the last night?"
"Yes, he had been Montague's physician many years ago, you know."
"I see," remarked Kennedy, who was thrusting about aimlessly to get her off her guard. "By the way, you know there is a great deal of gossip about the almost perfect state of preservation of the body, Mrs. Phelps. I see it was not embalmed."
She bit her lip and looked at Kennedy sharply.
"Why, why do you and Mr. Andrews worry me? Can't you see Doctor Forden?"
In her annoyance I fancied that there was a surprising lack of sorrow. She seemed preoccupied. I could not escape the feeling that she was putting some obstacle in our way, or that from the day of the discovery of the vandalism, some one had been making an effort to keep the real facts concealed. Was she shielding some one? It flashed over me that perhaps, after all, she had submitted to the blackmail and had buried the money at the appointed place. There seemed to be little use in pursuing the inquiry, so we excused ourselves, much, I thought, to her relief.
We found Doctor Forden, who lived on the same street as the Phelpses several squares away, most fortunately at home. Forden was an extremely interesting man, as is, indeed, the rule with physicians,
