went to my room about half-past ten o’clock.”
“And you retired then?”
“I did not. I read for a time, and wrote some letters, and went to bed about midnight. Or perhaps it was later—I dare say it was one o’clock.”
“Are you not sure?”
“No, I didn’t notice the time. Perhaps my maid can tell you. She was with me.”
So casual was Anne’s manner now that the coroner seemed to realize his questions were not of particular importance, and he tried a new tack.
“Was your husband kind to you, Mrs. Van Wyck?”
Anne stared at him coldly for a few seconds, and then spoke with great deliberation: “I decline to answer such a question, and I’m sure you are overstepping your rights in asking it.”
Her manner even more than her words abashed the coroner, but to cover his chagrin he became insistent. “It is necessary that I should know if there was harmony between you,” he declared. “I regret that the circumstances make it necessary for me to press the question.”
Anne’s eyes flashed. Her agitation was gone now, and her poise and calmness seemed to disconcert her inquisitor even more than her embarrassment had.
“There was perfect harmony between us,” she said, holding her head proudly and looking straight at the coroner, “with the exception of this matter of the library. I tried to dissuade my husband from his intent, for his own sake quite as much as for my own, for I felt sure he would regret such quixotic generosity. But he was determined to proceed in his plan, in spite of my protests.”
“And at the last moment he decided to add the valuable jewels to his gift?”
“Yes; his words to me last evening were the first intimation I had had that he meant to give away the Van Wyck pearls.”
“Had you any reason to doubt your husband’s sanity?”
“None, except in this matter of the library gift. Nor do I call that insanity; but rather a monomania which possessed him temporarily.”
“Do you think your late husband hid the pearls, or do you think they have been stolen?”
“I can form no opinion, as my husband’s death is so wrapped in mystery. He may have secreted the pearls or they may have been stolen by an expert burglar. Personally, I have no theories on the subject. It is all utterly mysterious to me.”
Anne passed her hand wearily across her brow with a gesture of exhaustion. I think this roused the coroner’s sympathy, and he excused her from further questioning.
Mrs. Carstairs was next called as a witness. There was a stir among the audience as she rose and walked slowly to the witness chair.
It was quite evident that considerable curiosity was felt regarding this woman.
I expected she would appear perturbed, but instead, she had a calm air of superiority and held her head high as if entirely mistress of the situation.
In spite of myself, I was obliged to admit that her face was fascinating in its expression, quite apart from the real beauty of her features. And then I suddenly realized that this remarkable woman was deliberately trying to charm the coroner by her demeanor!
She was beautifully gowned, as always, in black lustreless crêpe de chine, which clung to her beautiful figure in long sinuous lines and which, to my imagination, gave her the effect of a beautiful serpent. Her personality affected me unpleasantly and yet absorbed my attention entirely. She was so evidently conscious of the effect she produced, that it was as interesting as a play to watch her.
The very way in which she sat in her chair was a picture of itself. But it was no strained or forced pose, merely the careless grace of a perfectly poised woman. I glanced at Anne, and was surprised to see that she, too, was looking at Mrs. Carstairs admiringly. The two women were deadly enemies at heart, and it seemed to me to indicate a fine, generous nature in Anne to forget her prejudice in an honest appreciation of the other’s charm.
Mr. Mellen looked at his witness a little uncertainly. Clearly he did not understand Mrs. Carstairs, and was not sure how to address a woman of this type.
After the preliminary questions, as to her position and length of sojourn in the family, he said, almost abruptly:
“Do you think Mr. Van Wyck was a suicide?”
“It may be,” replied Mrs. Carstairs, in low, musical tones. “Mr. Van Wyck had reason to wish to die. And there are those who wished him dead.”
As she said these words, Mrs. Carstairs dropped her eyes and sat quietly awaiting further questions. Her speech almost amounted to an accusation, and Morland looked at her with a face full of rage and with clenched hands.
“Will you explain that implication, Madam?” asked the coroner.
“It was no implication, it was merely a statement”
“Very well, then, amplify it. Who are those, who, in your opinion, wished the death of David Van Wyck?”
Mrs. Carstairs assumed an expression of gentle pathos, which, while beautiful to behold, seemed to me the quintessence of hypocrisy. In a sad, low voice, she said, slowly:
“A man’s foes shall be they of his own household.”
Mr. Mellen stared at her. “It is your opinion, then,” he said, “that David Van Wyck’s death may have been brought about by some one who lived under this roof?”
“Do you not think so?” and the question was accompanied by a grave look, of infinite pain.
“You are here to answer questions, not to ask them. Nor are you invited to give unsupported opinions. If you know of anything, madam, definite and positive, that would lead you to suspect the thing you mention, tell us of it at once. But if not, kindly refrain from insinuation or implication.”
Mrs. Carstairs looked amazed rather than reproved. To my mind, she was suddenly confronted by a man who could not be cajoled by her fascinations, and who was outspoken in reply to her veiled hints.
“Assuredly I know of nothing definite, or I should have divulged it sooner.”
“To your knowledge, had Mr. Van Wyck an enemy in his own household?”
“Enemy is a harsh word. But the man was far from happy with one who should have been his closest friend.”
“Meaning his wife?”
“Meaning his wife.” Mrs. Carstairs’s face was white, now, and her eyes had a steely glitter as she said these words, looking straight at the coroner.
“You state, then, that Mr. Van Wyck was not happy in his marital relations?”
“I state that, emphatically.”
There was a murmur of disapproval all through the room at the trend of this conversation, and more than one was heard to whisper, “Shame!” and, “This won’t do!”
I could see that Archer, Morland and the others were restrained from speech only by Anne herself.
As I had noticed before when these two women clashed, Anne won by the force of her marvellous aloofness. She now sat regarding Mrs. Carstairs with an expression of slight scorn, which said far more strongly than words could have expressed, that the witness was talking nonsense. Anne Van Wyck looked like a queen listening to the prattle of a demented subject, and her absolute indifference to the housekeeper’s remarks was the one reason why her friends did not at once put a stop to the testimony.
I saw at once that Anne’s attitude was the best possible refutation of the housekeeper’s evidence; and I saw, too, that Mrs. Carstairs was herself quite aware of this. I think Anne’s look of supercilious scorn, almost tinged with amusement, acted as a whip to the housekeeper’s burdened soul, and spurred her to greater effort.
“I