to gossip. But nobody is deceived.

 

“If you ask me,” said Miss Ganett. (“Was that a Bamboo you discarded, dear? Oh!

no, I see now—it was a Circle.) As I was saying, if you ask me, Flora’s been

exceedingly lucky. Exceedingly lucky she’s been.”

 

“How’s that, Miss Ganett?” asked the colonel. “I’ll Pung that Green Dragon. How

do you make out that Miss Flora’s been lucky? Very charming girl and all that, I

know.”

 

“I mayn’t know very much about crime,” said Miss Ganett, with the air of one who

knows everything there is to know, “but I can tell you one thing. The first

question that’s always asked is ‘Who last saw the deceased alive?’ And the

person who did is regarded with suspicion.

 

Now, Flora Ackroyd last saw her uncle alive. It might have looked very nasty for

her—very nasty indeed. It’s my opinion—and I give it for what it’s worth, that

Ralph Paton is staying away on her account, to draw suspicion away from her.”

 

“Come, now,” I protested mildly, “you surely can’t suggest that a young girl

like Flora Ackroyd is capable of stabbing her uncle in cold blood?”

 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Miss Ganett. “I’ve just been reading a book from the

library about the underworld of Paris, and it says that some of the worst women

criminals are young girls with the faces of angels.”