“You’re not a spiritist, Mr. Porter?”
“‘I am a cynic; I am a carrion crow,’” I quoted. But I saw the words had no meaning for her. She may have felt some underlying amusement in them, however, for she stiffened somewhat, and rather abruptly changed her point of attack.
“I have often wondered,” she said slowly, “whether you have ever considered your uncle’s death as—unusual.”
“You mean that you do?”
“Personally,” she said, looking directly at me, “I think he was frightened to death.” She hesitated. She gave me the impression of venturing on ground which was unpleasant to her. “Either that or—” She abandoned that, and began again, hurriedly.
“My husband dislikes the subject,” she said. “But I will tell you why I believe what I do, and you can see what you can make of it. You remember th
