will settle itself. You won’t stay here, dear, you will come to me. We will – ”
“Please don’t talk like that now. I can’t bear it.” Avice’s brave, determined air forsook her, and with quivering lip, she looked imploringly at the man who gazed passionately into her troubled eyes.
“Forgive me, dear, I should have known better. But when I think of you, here, alone, save for a woman who is nothing to you, I want to carry you off where I can protect you from all annoyance or trouble.”
“I know you do, and I ought to feel more grateful, but I can’t seem to think of anything just now but – ”
“Of course, my darling, I understand, and it is all right. Only tell me what you want and I am at your orders, always and forever.”
“Then come with me to the other room, stay by me, and tell me what things mean, when I don’t understand. Listen, too, yourself, to everything, so you’ll know just what to do when the police fail.”
“Why are you so sure they will fail?”
“Because the case is all so mysterious. Because it will take a clever and skilled brain to find my uncle’s murderer.”
Avice spoke in low, intense tones, as if she were stirred to the very soul by her harrowing anxiety.
“Avice,” said Hoyt, suddenly, “have you any suspicion of anybody – anybody at all?”
“No! oh, no! How could I have?”
“But have you?” Hoyt scanned her face closely, noting the quickly dropped eyelids and firm, set mouth.
“Not a suspicion – oh, no!”
“A premonition, then? A vague idea of any way to look?”
“No – no. No, I haven’t.”
The first negative was hesitating, the second, positive and decided. It was as if she had instantly made up her mind to say nothing more.
Leslie Hoyt looked at her, and then with a gentle smile, as of one humoring a child, he said: “All right, dear. Come now with me.”
And together, they went to listen to the inquest held to determine the circumstances of the death of Rowland Trowbridge.
CHAPTER IV
THE INQUEST BEGINS
As Avice entered the drawing-room, she seemed to sense only a blur of faces. It was incredible that this should be the room where she had so often laughed and danced and sung in thoughtless joyousness of spirit. She blindly followed Judge Hoyt, and sat where he bade her, quite near the coroner and his jury.
The jurymen, though solemnly attentive to their duty, could not help their roving gaze being attracted to the splendor of their surroundings. The Trowbridge home was the perfection of quiet, old-fashioned elegance. Often Avice had wanted to introduce more modern furniture and decorations, but Mr. Trowbridge had firmly denied her requests. And so the old crystal chandeliers still drooped their festooned prisms and the massive doors were still of a soft, lusterless black, with fine gilt outlines of panelling.
Mrs. Black, too, often sighed for modern bric-a-brac and fashionable window draperies, but the will of the master was law, and the quaint Sevres vases and heavy hangings remained untouched.
Coroner Berg fairly fluttered with importance. Only lately had he been appointed to his office, and he assumed a knowing air to hide his lack of experience. He was naturally acute and shrewd, but his mind just now was occupied more with the manner than the matter of his procedure. He had studied well his book of rules, and it was with great dignity that he called for the police report on the case.
The testimony of the chief of police and the police surgeon set forth the principal known facts, which were, however, lamentably few. Even the coroner’s intelligent questions failed to bring out more than the story of the telephone message, the account of the finding of the body and the nature of the crime.
“Do you assume the assailant to have been right-handed?” Berg asked of the surgeon.
“Apparently, yes. But not necessarily so. The blade penetrated the victim’s left breast, and was most likely dealt by a person standing directly facing him.”
“Was the thrust directed with an upward slant or downward?”
“Neither. It was just about level. It slanted, however, toward the middle of the body, from the left side, thus practically proving a right-handed use of the weapon.”
“Was death instantaneous?”
“Probably not. But it must have occurred very shortly after the blow.”
Doctor Fulton, the family physician, corroborated the report of the police surgeon in all its essentials.
“Was Mr. Trowbridge in general good health, so far as you know?” asked the coroner.
“Absolutely. He was strong, hale and hearty, always. I have known him for years, and he was never seriously ill.”
“And strong?”
“Of average strength.”
“Would you not judge then, he could have resisted this attack?”
“Undoubtedly he tried to do so. There is some indication of a muscular struggle. But the assumption must be that the assailant was a stronger man than the victim.”
“How do you explain his contorted features, even in death?”
“By the fact that he was surprised and overpowered, and his dying struggles were so desperate as to leave their mark.”
“You do not attribute the expression on the dead face to any terrific mental emotion at the moment of death?”
“It may be so. Indeed, it may be the result of both mental and physical agony.”
“The point is important,” said the coroner, with an impressive wave of his hand. “For if mental, it might mean that the man who attacked him was known to him; while merely physical horror would imply a robber or thug.”
The jurymen wagged their heads wisely at this sapient remark, as if it opened up a new field of conjecture.
Avice was questioned next.
She was a little startled at the suddenness of the call, but responded clearly and with an entirely collected manner to all queries.
“You are Mr. Trowbridge’s niece?”
“Yes, the daughter of his younger brother.”
“You make your home here?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you done so?”
“Since childhood. My parents died before I was ten years old.”
“And you are your uncle’s heiress?”
Judge Hoyt looked a little annoyed at the baldness of this question, but Avice replied, serenely,
