At seven o’clock the next morning she came downstairs as usual to begin her day’s duties, and, on her way to the front door to bring in the milk and cream, had discovered Benson’s body. All the shades in the living-room were down.

At first she thought Benson had fallen asleep in his chair, but when she saw the bullet hole and noticed that the electric lights had been switched off, she knew he was dead. She had gone at once to the telephone in the hall and, asking the operator for the Police Station, had reported the murder. She had then remembered Benson’s brother, Major Anthony Benson, and had telephoned him also. He had arrived at the house almost simultaneously with the detectives from the West Forty-seventh Street station. He had questioned her a little, talked with the plain-clothes men, and gone away before the men from Headquarters arrived.

“And now, Mrs. Platz,” said Markham, glancing at the notes he had been making, “one or two more questions, and we won’t trouble you further… Have you noticed anything in Mr. Benson’s actions lately that might lead you to suspect that he was worried—or, let us say, in fear of anything happening to him?”

“No, sir,” the woman answered readily. “It looked like he was in special good-humor for the last week or so.”

“I notice that most of the windows on this floor are barred. Was he particularly afraid of burglars, or of people breaking in?”

“Well—not exactly,” was the hesitant reply. “But he did use to say as how the police were no good—begging your pardon, sir—and how a man in this city had to look out for himself if he didn’t want to get held up.”

Markham turned to Heath with a chuckle.

“You might make a special note of that for your files, Sergeant.” Then to Mrs. Platz: “Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Mr. Benson?”

“Not a soul, sir,” the housekeeper answered emphatically. “He was a queer man in many ways, but everybody seemed to like him. He was all the time going to parties or giving parties. I just can’t see why anybody’d want to kill him.”

Markham looked over his notes again.

“I don’t think there’s anything else for the present. … How about it, Sergeant? Anything further you want to ask?”

Heath pondered a moment.

“No, I can’t think of anything more just now. … But you, Mrs. Platz,” he added, turning a cold glance on the woman, “will stay here in this house till you’re given permission to leave. We’ll want to question you later. But you’re not to talk to anyone else—understand? Two of my men will be here for a while yet.”

Vance, during the interview, had been jotting down something on the fly-leaf of a small pocket address-book, and as Heath was speaking, he tore out the page and handed it to Markham. Markham glanced at it frowningly and pursed his lips. Then after a few moments’ hesitation, he addressed himself again to the housekeeper.

“You mentioned, Mrs. Platz, that Mr. Benson was liked by everyone. Did you yourself like him?”

The woman shifted her eyes to her lap.

“Well, sir,” she replied reluctantly, “I was only working for him, and I haven’t got any complaint about the way he treated me.”

Despite her words, she gave the impression that she either disliked Benson extremely or greatly disapproved of him. Markham, however, did not push the point.

“And by the way, Mrs. Platz,” he said next, “did Mr. Benson keep any fire-arms about the house? For instance, do you know if he owned a revolver?”

For the first time during the interview, the woman appeared agitated, even frightened.

“Yes, sir, I—think he did,” she admitted, in an unsteady voice.