did not consult my knowledge, sir, in regard to the subject: only my feelings.”
“Then I suppose it was your feelings which prompted you to remain standing by the table at which he was murdered, instead of following the body in and seeing it properly deposited? Or perhaps,” he went on, with relentless sarcasm, “you were too much interested, just then, in the piece of paper you took away, to think much of the proprieties of the occasion?”
“Paper?” lifting her head with determination. “Who says I took a piece of paper from the table?”
“One witness has sworn to seeing you bend over the table upon which several papers lay strewn; another, to meeting you a few minutes later in the hall just as you were putting a piece of paper into your pocket. The inference follows, Miss Leavenworth.”
This was a home thrust, and we looked to see some show of agitation, but her haughty lip never quivered.
“You have drawn the inference, and you must prove the fact.”
The answer was stateliness itself, and we were not surprised to see the coroner look a trifle baffled; but, recovering himself, he said:
“Miss Leavenworth, I must ask you again, whether you did or did not take anything from that table?”
She folded her arms. “I decline answering the question,” she quietly said.
“Pardon me,” he rejoined: “it is necessary that you should.”
Her lip took a still more determined curve. “When any suspicious paper is found in my possession, it will be time enough then for me to explain how I came by it.”
This defiance seemed to quite stagger the coroner.
“Do you realize to what this refusal is liable to subject you?”
She dropped her head. “I am afraid that I do; yes, sir.”
Mr. Gryce lifted his hand, and softly twirled the tassel of the window curtain.
“And you still persist?”
She absolutely disdained to reply.
The coroner did not press it further.
It had now become evident to all, that Eleanore Leavenworth not only stood on her defence, but was perfectly aware of her position, and prepared to maintain it. Even her cousin, who until now had preserved some sort of composure, began to show signs of strong and uncontrollable agitation, as if she found it one thing to utter an accusation herself, and quite another to see it mirrored in the countenances of the men about her.
“Miss Leavenworth,” the coroner continued, changing the line of attack, “you have always had free access to your uncle’s apartments, have you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Might even have entered his room late at night, crossed it and stood at his side, without disturbing him sufficiently to cause him to turn his head?”
“Yes,” her hands pressing themselves painfully together.
“Miss Leavenworth, the key to the library door is missing.”
She made no answer.
“It has been testified to, that previous to the actual discovery of the murder, you visited the door of the library alone. Will you tell us if the key was then in the lock?”
“It was not.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am.”
“Now, was there anything peculiar about this key, either in size or shape?”
She strove to repress the sudden terror which this question produced, glanced carelessly around at the group of servants stationed at her back, and trembled. “It was a little different from the others,” she finally acknowledged.
“In what respect?”
“The handle was broken.”
“Ah, gentlemen, the handle was broken!” emphasized the coroner, looking towards the jury.
Mr. Gryce seemed to take this information to himself, for he gave another of his quick nods.
“You would, then, recognize this key, Miss Leavenworth, if you should see it?”
She cast a startled look at him, as if she expected to behold it in his hand; but, seeming to gather courage at not finding it produced, replied quite easily:
“I think I should, sir.”
The coroner seemed satisfied, and was about to dismiss the witness when Mr. Gryce quietly advanced and touched him on the arm. “One moment,” said that gentleman, and stooping, he whispered a few words in the coroner’s ear; then, recovering himself, stood with his right hand in his breast pocket and his eye upon the chandelier.
I scarcely dared to breathe. Had he repeated to the coroner the words he had inadvertently overheard in the hall above? But a glance at the latter’s face satisfied me that nothing of such importance had transpired. He looked not only tired, but a trifle annoyed.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said he, turning again in her direction; “you have declared that you did not visit your uncle’s room last evening. Do you repeat the assertion?”
“I do.”
He glanced at Mr. Gryce, who immediately drew from his breast a handkerchief curiously soiled. “It is strange, then, that your handkerchief should have been found this morning in that room.”
The girl uttered a cry. Then, while Mary’s face hardened into a sort of strong despair, Eleanore tightened her lips and coldly replied, “I do not see as it is so very strange. I was in that room early this morning.”
“And you dropped it then?”
A distressed blush crossed her face; she did not reply.
“Soiled in this way?” he went on.
“I know nothing about the soil. What is it? let me see.”
“In a moment. What we now wish, is to know how it came to be in your uncle’s apartment.”
“There are many ways. I might have left it there days ago. I have told you I was in the habit of visiting his room. But first, let me see if it is my handkerchief.” And she held out her hand.
“I presume so, as I am told it has your initials embroidered in the corner,” he remarked, as Mr. Gryce passed it to her.
But she with horrified voice interrupted him. “These dirty spots! What are they? They look like—”
“—what they are,” said the coroner. “If you have ever cleaned a pistol, you must know what they are, Miss Leavenworth.”
She let the handkerchief fall convulsively from her hand, and stood staring at it, lying before her on the floor. “I know nothing about it, gentlemen,” she said. “It is my handkerchief, but—” for some cause she did not finish her sentence, but again repeated, “Indeed, gentlemen, I know nothing about it!”
This closed her testimony.
Kate, the cook, was now recalled, and asked to tell when she last washed the handkerchief?
“This, sir; this handkerchief? Oh, some time this week, sir,” throwing a deprecatory glance at her mistress.
“What day?”
“Well, I wish I could forget, Miss Eleanore, but I can’ t. It is the only one like it in the house. I washed it day before yesterday.”
“When did you iron it?”
“Yesterday morning,” half choking over the words.
“And when did you take it to her room?”
The