without some motive. Does the secretary know whether Mr. Leavenworth had any secret enemy?”
“I do not.”
“Every one in the house seemed to be on good terms with him?”
“Yes, sir,” with a little quaver of dissent in the assertion, however.
“Not a shadow lay between him and any other member of his household, so far as you know?”
“I am not ready to say that,” he returned, quite distressed. “A shadow is a very slight thing. There might have been a shadow——”
“Between him and whom?”
A long hesitation. “One of his nieces, sir.”
“Which one?”
Again that defiant lift of the head. “Miss Eleanore.”
“How long has this shadow been observable?”
“I cannot say.”
“You do not know the cause?”
“I do not.”
“Nor the extent of the feeling?”
“No, sir.”
“You open Mr. Leavenworth’s letters?”
“I do.”
“Has there been anything in his correspondence of late calculated to throw any light upon this deed?”
It actually seemed as if he never would answer. Was he simply pondering over his reply, or was the man turned to stone?
“Mr. Harwell, did you hear the juryman?” inquired the coroner.
“Yes, sir; I was thinking.”
“Very well, now answer.”
“Sir,” he replied, turning and looking the juryman full in the face, and in that way revealing his unguarded left hand to my gaze, “I have opened Mr. Leavenworth’s letters as usual for the last two weeks, and I can think of nothing in them bearing in the least upon this tragedy.”
The man lied; I knew it instantly. The clenched hand pausing irresolute, then making up its mind to go through with the lie firmly, was enough for me.
“Mr. Harwell, this is undoubtedly true according to your judgment,” said the coroner; “but Mr. Leavenworth’s correspondence will have to be searched for all that.”
“Of course,” he replied carelessly; “that is only right.”
This remark ended Mr. Harwell’s examination for the time. As he sat down I made note of four things.
That Mr. Harwell himself, for some reason not given, was conscious of a suspicion which he was anxious to suppress even from his own mind.
That a woman was in some way connected with it, a rustle as well as a footstep having been heard by him on the stairs.
That a letter had arrived at the house, which if found would be likely to throw some light upon this subject.
That Eleanore Leavenworth’s name came with difficulty from his lips; this evidently unimpressible man, manifesting more or less emotion whenever he was called upon to utter it.
Chapter IV.
A Clue
“Something is rotten in the State of Denmark.”
—Hamlet.
The cook of the establishment being now called, that portly, ruddy-faced individual stepped forward with alacrity, displaying upon her good-humored countenance such an expression of mingled eagerness and anxiety that more than one person present found it difficult to restrain a smile at her appearance. Observing this and taking it as a compliment, being a woman as well as a cook, she immediately dropped a curtsey, and opening her lips was about to speak, when the coroner, rising impatiently in his seat, took the word from her mouth by saying sternly:
“Your name?”
“Katherine Malone, sir.”
“Well, Katherine, how long have you been in Mr. Leavenworth’s service?”
“Shure, it is a good twelvemonth now, sir, since I came, on Mrs. Wilson’s ricommindation, to that very front door, and——”
“Never mind the front door, but tell us why you left this Mrs. Wilson?”
“Shure, and it was she as left me, being as she went sailing to the ould country the same day when on her recommendation I came to this very front door—”
“Well, well; no matter about that. You have been in Mr. Leavenworth’s family a year?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And liked it? found him a good master?”
“Och, sir, niver have I found a better, worse luck to the villain as killed him. He was that free and ginerous, sir, that many’s the time I killed him. He was that free and ginerous, sir, that many’s the time I have said to Hannah—” She stopped, with a sudden comical gasp of terror, looking at her fellow-servants like one who had incautiously made a slip. The coroner, observing this, inquired hastily,
“Hannah? Who is Hannah?”
The cook, drawing her roly-poly figure up into some sort of shape in her efforts to appear unconcerned, exclaimed boldly: “She? Oh, only the ladies’ maid, sir.”
“But I don’t see any one here answering to that description. You didn’t speak of any one by the name of Hannah, as belonging to the house,” said he, turning to Thomas.
“No, sir,” the latter replied, with a bow and a sidelong look at the red-cheeked girl at his side. “You asked me who were in the house at the time the murder was discovered, and I told you.”
“Oh,” cried the coroner, satirically; “used to police courts, I see.” Then, turning back to the cook, who had all this while been rolling her eyes in a vague fright about the room, inquired, “And where is this Hannah?”
“Shure, sir, she’s gone.”
“How long since?”
The cook caught her breath hysterically. “Since last night.”
“What time last night?”
“Troth, sir, and I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Was she dismissed?”
“Not as I knows on; her clothes is here.”
“Oh, her clothes are here. At what hour did you miss her?”
“I didn’t miss her. She was here last night, and she isn’t here this morning, and so I says she ‘s gone.”
“Humph!” cried the coroner, casting a slow glance down the room, while every one present looked as if a door had suddenly opened in a closed wall.
“Where did this girl sleep?”
The cook, who had been fumbling uneasily with her apron, looked up.
“Shure, we all sleeps at the top of the house, sir.”
“In one room?”
Slowly. “Yes, sir.”
“Did she come up to the room last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At what hour?”
“Shure, it was ten when we all