I had ever seen, and what struck me as being worthy of remark was that this melancholy seemed a settled one and quite apart from the present grief and disturbance. Yet he had been heavily shaken by his father's sudden if not inexplicable death, or appeared to be, which possibly is not quite the same thing.
"I do not understand why my father should have called anyone in from the street to witness his sufferings while he had sons in the house," he courteously remarked; "but having felt this necessity and having succeeded in obtaining such help, I am glad that chance favoured him and us with a person of such apparent good feeling as yourself."
I scarcely heeded him. I was pondering over the letter and whether I should pass it over to this man. But instinct withheld me, or rather my lawyer-like habits which happily acted as a restraint upon my natural impulse. I had received no intimation as yet that it was intended for any of Mr. Gillespie's sons.
"You will oblige us by waiting for the coroner?" he now went on. "He has telephoned that he will be here immediately."
"I shall wait," I said. And it was by his invitation I now stepped into the parlour.
A quarter of an hour, a half-hour, passed before the front door bell rang again. From the hubbub which ensued, I knew that the man we wished for had arrived, but it was a long while before he entered the room in which I sat, during which tedious interim I had to possess my soul in patience. But at last I heard his step on the threshold, and looking up, I beheld a spare, earnest man who approached me with great seriousness, and sat down near enough to indulge in confidential talk without running the risk of being heard by anyone.
"You are Mr. Outhwaite," he began. "I have heard of your firm and have more than once seen Mr. Robinson. Had you any acquaintance with Mr. Gillespie or his family before to-night?"
"No, sir; Mr. Gillespie was known to me only by reputation."
"Then it was pure chance which led you to be a witness of his final moments?"
"Pure chance, if we do not believe in Providence," I returned.
He surveyed me quite intently.
"Relate what passed."
Now here was a dilemma. Did my duty exact a revelation of the facts which I had hitherto felt obliged to keep even from the deceased man's sons? It was a question not to be decided in a moment, so I made up my mind to be guided by developments, and confined my narration to a recapitulation of my former plain account of Mr. Gillespie's last moments. This narrative I made as simple as I could. When I had finished he asked if Mr. Gillespie's grandchild had been present at the moment her grandfather expired.
I answered that she had been clinging to him all the time he remained erect, but shrank back and ran out of the room the moment he gave signs of falling to the floor.
"Did he speak to her?"
"Not that I heard."
"Did he say anything?"
"A few inarticulate words, no names."
"He did not ask for his sons?"
"No."
"For none of them?"
"No."
"How came the alarm to be spread?"
"I went up with the child and called the young men down."
Coroner Frisbie stroked his chin, still looking at me intently.
"Was there an empty phial or a piece of paper lying about on the study-table or on the floor when you went in?"
I started.
"Paper?" I repeated. "What kind of paper?"
"Such as is used by druggists and physicians in rolling up their prescriptions. The prussic acid which Mr. Gillespie has evidently taken must have been bought in liquid form. The bottle which held it should be lying about and possibly the paper in which it was wrapped. That is, if this poison was swallowed intentionally by Mr. Gillespie."
I recalled the exact look of the scrap of paper I had put into an envelope at this gentleman's request. It was not such a one as is used by druggists in wrapping up parcels, and I felt my breast grow lighter by a degree.
"I did not see any such paper."
"Where is the little girl?" he now queried. "I must see her."
I had made up my mind to one thing. If the child said that I had been given a paper by her grandfather I would acknowledge it and produce the envelope. But if she had forgotten the fact or had been too frightened to notice it, I would preserve silence in regard to it a little longer, in the hope of being shown a way out of my difficulty.
I was therefore not sorry to hear him ask for the little girl.
"I take it that you are not anxious to remain here," he now remarked. "If you will give me your address and hold yourself in readiness to obey my summons, I can excuse you for the night."
For answer I held out my card, and seeing that I had no further excuse for lingering, was moving toward the door, when Dr. Bennett came hurriedly in.
"I have found something – " he began, and then paused with a quick glance in my direction, as if questioning the propriety of proceeding further with his discovery in my presence.
The coroner showed no such hesitation. Hastening to meet the old family physician, he said:
"You have found the bottle or only the paper in which the bottle was wrapped?"
Dr. Bennett drew him aside, and I saw what looked like a small cork pass between them.
"Was it in Mr. Gillespie's study you found this?" queried the coroner. "I thought I had thoroughly searched the study."
The answer was uttered in the lowest of low tones, but I had no difficulty in catching the gist of what he said.
"It was on the dining-room floor, under the edge of the rug. A very suspicious fact, don't you think so? Mr. Gillespie would never have thrust it there. Some other person – don't know who – not say anything yet – shrink from seeing the police in this house."
The two doctors interchanged a look which I surprised in the large mirror opposite. But I gave no sign of having seen anything extraordinary. I felt too keenly the delicacy of my own position. Next minute we were all walking towards the hall.
"Silence!" came in admonitory tones from the coroner as we paused for a moment on the threshold. "Let us not disturb the young men any further than is necessary to-night."
At that moment we heard the cry:
"Where is Miss Meredith? Has anyone seen Miss Meredith? I cannot find her in any of the rooms upstairs."
"Hope! Hope! Where are you, Hope?" called out another voice, charged with feeling.
Hope! Did my heart beat faster as this name, destined to play such a part in my future life, was sounded in my ears? I cannot say. That heart has beat often enough since at the utterance of this sweet monosyllable, but at that time – well, I think I was too interested in the alarm which this cry instantly raised, to note my personal sensations. From one end of the house to the other, men and women rushed from room to room, and I heard not only this name called out, but that of the child, which
