Kitabı oku: «The Curved Blades», sayfa 4
“Not by Miss Carrington,” said Doctor Stanton, decidedly. “The lady has been my patient for years, and she had an absolute abhorrence of all sorts of drugs or medicines. She made more fuss over taking a simple powder than a spoiled child. I have often prescribed for her, knowing full well she would not take my prescriptions because of her detestation of taking medicine. When remedies have been really necessary, I have had to administer them while with her, and a difficult task it was. Moreover, my patient was not of the temperament or disposition to seek death for herself, nor had she any reason to do so. No; the case is murder; the poison was administered by some one who wished for her death and deliberately set out to accomplish it, – and succeeded.”
“Is the action of this poison instantaneous?” asked Brunt.
“No; death ensues about a half hour to an hour after the dose is taken into the system.”
“Then, we gather that the poison was taken in the neighborhood of one o’clock, last night.”
“Yes,” agreed the Coroner, “about one o’clock.”
“About one o’clock!” whispered Anita, in an awe-struck, gasping way, and her great blue eyes stared dazedly into the dark ones of Pauline.
VII
THE INQUEST
Next morning the inquest was proceeding. The great living-room at Garden Steps was crowded with listeners, drawn hither by sympathy, interest or curiosity. And each class found ample to satisfy its motive. The mere fact of being within that exclusive home, within those heretofore inaccessible doors, was enough to thrill and delight many, and observation and scrutiny were as well repaid as was the listening to the astounding revelations that were poured into their ears.
Coroner Scofield’s jury was composed of intelligent men, who were eagerly receptive to the appalling facts narrated to them and the curiously bizarre bits of evidence that became known as the witnesses were questioned.
Dr. Stanton told of his being called to the house, and his discoveries and conclusions. He admitted that he assumed death was caused by the blow on the head, but claimed that it was a pardonable error in view of the fact that such a blow had been given. He affirmed, and Dr. Moore corroborated it, that the autopsy showed that death was caused by aconitine poison, administered, either by the deceased or another, at an hour not earlier than one o’clock, and probably soon thereafter. The terrible blow that had fractured the skull had been given after life had been for some time extinct.
Dr. Stanton asserted emphatically his late patient’s detestation of drugs or medicines of any sort, adducing thereby the extreme improbability of the poison having been self-administered. Moreover, the temperament and disposition of the late Miss Carrington entirely evinced a love of life and desire to prolong it by means of any device or assistance the doctor might give.
Pauline was called next, and a little flutter of excitement in the audience greeted her appearance.
Exceedingly dignified, but of a sweet, gracious mien, she at once received the silent approval of the crowd. Her black gown, its collar of sheer white organdy slightly open at the throat, well suited her pale, beautiful face and her dark hair and eyes. To-day, her eyes seemed fathomless. At times, gazing intently at the Coroner until they almost disconcerted him; and then, hidden by veiling lids, whose long lashes fell suddenly, as if to conceal further disclosures.
On the whole, Pauline was not a satisfactory witness. She told, in most straightforward way, of leaving the breakfast table to go to her aunt’s room and of finding there the dead body. She told clearly all the circumstances of the upset tray, the spilled powder and the eccentric garb of Miss Carrington herself. But questions as to her opinion of these facts brought little response.
“You left Miss Carrington at half-past twelve?” asked Coroner Scofield.
“Not so late, I think,” returned Pauline; “probably at quarter or twenty minutes past twelve, – I am not sure.”
“How was she then dressed?”
“In the gown she had worn during the evening.”
“And her jewels?”
“When I left my aunt, she was wearing her pearls and the other jewelry she had worn with her evening dress. Some brooches and rings and bracelets.”
“But not so much as she had on when you discovered her in the morning?”
“Not nearly so much.”
“How do you account for this?”
“I don’t account for it. To me it is exceedingly mysterious.”
“And the paper snake round her neck?”
“I have no idea by whom such a thing could have been brought to my aunt. But I am positive she never put it on herself. Nor can I think she would allow it to come near her if she were alive, – or conscious, – or, had power to scream for help. Any one knowing my aunt’s fear and horror of anything reptilian will agree to this.”
“It seems evident,” said the Coroner, thoughtfully, “that some intruder entered Miss Carrington’s room, at or near one o’clock. That this intruder in some manner induced Miss Carrington to swallow the poison, whether conscious of her act or not. That the intruder subsequently, and for some reason, placed the snake round the neck of the victim, and, later still, brutally gave her a stunning blow with the black-jack which was found, and thereby fractured her skull. Granting these assumptions, can you, Miss Stuart, give us any information that would lead to discovery of the hand that wrought this havoc?”
“Not any,” and Pauline raised her great eyes a moment to Scofield’s face and slowly dropped them again.
“Then can you not express an opinion or suggest a theory that might account for such strange happenings, at least, in part?”
“No,” said Pauline, slowly; “I have no idea, nor can I imagine why my aunt should be so elaborately arrayed and seated in an easy chair in front of her mirror. It is contrary to all her customs or habits.”
“Could she have been killed first and could the jewels and adornments have been added afterward?” asked the Coroner of the doctors.
“No,” replied Dr. Moore; “the whole condition of the body and clothing make such a theory practically impossible.”
“Quite impossible,” added Dr. Stanton; “and, too, what would be the sense of such a proceeding?”
“We are establishing the facts of the proceedings, not the sense of them,” returned the Coroner, a little testily, for he was at his wits’ end even to make a beginning in this strange case.
“At least,” he went on, “we have the facts and the approximate time of the crime; have you, Miss Stuart, any suspicion of who the murderer can be?”
The question was shot out suddenly. If its intent was to startle the witness, it certainly succeeded. Pauline Stuart turned even whiter than she had been, and she caught her breath quickly and audibly as she flashed a frightened glance at Gray Haviland. It was by no means an accusing glance, though many who saw it, eager for a direction in which to cast their suspicions, took it for such.
But Pauline controlled herself immediately. “Certainly not,” she said coldly. “That is, I can have no suspicion of the murderer’s identity. It was, of course, a midnight intruder, of the criminal class. I have no individual acquaintances who use or possess the weapon that was employed in this crime.”
“The black-jack is an auxiliary only. The poison may have been administered by one not versed in the ways of professional criminals. You admit that, I suppose?”
“It is no doubt true,” said Pauline, icily, “that poison may be given by a person not belonging to the criminal classes. I fail to see, however, how that fact affects the matter in hand.”
“It may well affect it. Since Miss Carrington was killed by a deadly poison, we must conclude that the black-jack assault was made with the intention of concealing the poisoning and making it appear that the blow caused the death. There seems to me no other way to account for the conditions that confront us.”
A silence followed this. Its truth was patent to everybody. Clearly, the poisoner had delivered the blow, for no one else would attack a victim already dead. And a plausible reason would be the hope that the poisoning would pass unnoticed in view of the other apparent cause of death.
“And it points to the work of an amateur,” went on Scofield; “a professional criminal would know that the autopsy would disclose the earlier crime.”
Pauline lost her nerve. “I don’t know anything about it!” she cried, and sank back into her seat, her face buried in her hands.
Coroner Scofield was a man of tact. “It is entirely natural, Miss Stuart,” he said, “that this thought should overcome you. But we must realize the fact that the theory of a professional burglar is practically untenable, because nothing was stolen. A burglar’s motive could be only robbery, and this did not take place. Nor can we think that a burglar was frightened away, before he could appropriate the jewels. For, after giving the poison, and before the blow was given, sufficient time elapsed for a successful getaway to be made. Nor would the burglar have been at pains to cover up his poisoning work, for having achieved his end, he would have secured his booty and made escape. So, it is evident that the motive, not being robbery, is as yet unknown, and may be obscure and complicated.”
“What could it have been?” asked Pauline, her composure regained, her voice low and even.
Scofield looked at her. “It is said, Miss Stuart, that the only motives for murder are love, revenge or gain. Can you imagine any one of these directed toward your aunt?”
Pauline replied tranquilly. Evidently she had fully recovered her poise. “I can think of no one who could have killed my aunt for love; it is improbable that she has ever done any one such wrong as to call for such a deed in revenge; as to gain, if you mean pecuniary gain, all the legatees mentioned in her will may be said to have that motive.”
Pauline’s manner and tones were so impersonal, so scathingly ironic as to amount to a disclaimer for all the legatees. Her way of suggesting it made it seem so far removed from possibility that it was far more emphatic than any denial could have been.
But Coroner Scofield was as unmoved as his witness.
“Quite so,” he said coolly; “and therefore inquiries must be made. Did you, Miss Stuart, after leaving your aunt soon after midnight see or hear anything unusual or suspicious?”
“What do you mean by unusual or suspicious?”
“I mean did you see or hear anything, anything at all, that you could not explain to yourself as being in any way connected with the tragedy we are investigating?”
Before answering, Pauline looked in turn at all the members of the household. Haviland slowly turned his head as if to look at something across the room, and as slowly brought it back to its previous position.
“I did not,” said Pauline, looking straight at the Coroner.
“That is all,” said Scofield, briefly, and the next witness was called.
This was the maid, Estelle. Her eyes were red with weeping, but she was not hysterical now, or incoherent. She answered tersely questions as to Miss Carrington’s habits and as to her words and actions during the maid’s last interview with her.
“I left her at about quarter of one,” the witness deposed; “I had given her the Oriental negligée, of which she is fond. I offered to take down her hair and put away her jewels, but she declined those services, and bade me leave her.”
“She was wearing, when you left her, only the jewels she had worn during the evening?”
“Only those, sir. When I changed her evening gown for the boudoir robe, she bade me replace such jewels as I had already taken off her. She kept on her rings, bracelets and her long rope of pearls while I changed her costume.”
“And then she dismissed you for the night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where was she then? Sitting before the mirror?”
“No, sir. She stood in the middle of the floor.”
“Was she in an amiable mood?”
“She was not. Because I offered to assist her further, she ordered me from the room in anger.”
“Ah, in anger! Was Miss Carrington often angry with you?”
“Indeed, yes; as she was with everybody.”
“Confine your answers to your own experience. You prepared a night luncheon for your mistress?”
“Yes, sir,” and now Estelle’s voice trembled and her eyes rolled apprehensively.
“What was it?”
“Two small sandwiches and a glass of milk.”
“What sort of sandwiches?”
“Caviare, sir.”
“Ah, yes. And why did you put a large dose of bromide in the glass of milk?”
“Did it kill her?” and Estelle screamed out her query. Pauline and Anita looked at one another. It was the same question Estelle had asked of them.
“An overdose of bromide may be fatal,” parried the Coroner, not answering the question directly. “Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t do it,” and the French girl shrugged her shoulders; “why should I poison my mistress? She was quick-tempered, but I was used to that.”
“Don’t be stupid,” said the Coroner; “the bromide didn’t poison Miss Carrington, for, in the first place, she didn’t take it. The glass of milk was found next morning untouched, though the sandwiches were gone. Therefore, the bromide in the milk was found. Why did you put it in?”
“I didn’t do it,” reiterated the maid. “Look higher up for that!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mention no names, but somebody must have done it, if bromide was found in that milk.”
“But you tried to get the glass away next morning, without being seen.”
“Who says I did?”
“Never mind that; you were seen. Why?”
“Well, sir, if I thought anybody was going to get into trouble because of it, I was only too glad to help, if I could, by removing it before it was noticed.” Estelle spoke slowly, as if weighing her words, and her furtive glances at Pauline bore only one significance. It was palpably apparent that she suspected Miss Stuart of the deed, and out of kindness had tried to remove the incriminating evidence.
Pauline stared at her with a glance that went through her or over her or around her, but gave not the slightest attention to the speaker.
“Did you put bromide in your aunt’s glass of milk, Miss Stuart?” asked the Coroner, and Pauline said, calmly, “Certainly not.”
Mr. Scofield sighed. It was a difficult matter to get at the truth when the witnesses were clever women, in whose veracity he had not complete confidence.
He gave up Estelle for the moment, and called Gray Haviland.
The young man’s appearance gave every promise of frankness and sincerity. He detailed the circumstances precisely as Pauline had told them. He denied having heard or seen anything suspicious during the night. He referred to the Coroner’s list of motives for crime, and added that he agreed with Miss Stuart that the present case could scarcely be ascribed to love or revenge. If the murder was committed for gain, it was, of course, a formal necessity to question all the beneficiaries of Miss Carrington’s will, but he was sure that all such inheritors were quite willing to be questioned. For his part, he believed that the criminal was some enemy of Miss Carrington, unknown to her immediate household, and he suggested that such a one be searched for.
“You’ve got that glove,” he reminded, “that was found clasped in the hand of the murdered woman. Why not trace that; or endeavor to learn in some way the reason for the many peculiar circumstances; or discover, at least, a way to look for further evidence; rather than to vaguely suspect those who lived under Miss Carrington’s roof?”
“I am not asking your assistance in conducting this inquiry, Mr. Haviland,” and the Coroner spoke shortly; “but pursuing my own plan of obtaining evidence in my own way. Will you kindly answer questions without comment on them?”
“Oh, all right; fire away. Only remember, that we relatives and friends are just as much interested in clearing up this mystery as you are, and we want to help, if we can be allowed to do so intelligently.”
Asked again if he saw or heard anything unusual in the night, Haviland replied, “You said ‘suspicious’ the other time. I did see something unusual. I saw Estelle go stealthily downstairs at three A.M. That’s unusual, but I don’t go so far as to call it suspicious.”
VIII
ANITA’S STORY
Instead of showing surprise at this statement, the Coroner broke the breathless silence that followed it, by saying:
“Will you please explain what you mean by ‘stealthily?’”
“Just what I say,” returned Haviland, bluntly. “She went slowly, now and then pausing to listen, twice drawing back around a corner and peeping out, and then coming forth again; she wore no shoes and carried no light; she went down the big staircase in the manner I have described, and after about ten minutes, returned in the same fashion. That’s what I mean by stealthily.”
“What was your errand?” asked Scofield of Estelle.
“Nothing. I didn’t go,” she replied, coolly.
“She tells an untruth,” said Gray, calmly. “She did go, just as I have described. But it was doubtless on an innocent errand. I have no idea she was implicated in Miss Carrington’s death. I am sure it is of casual explanation, – or, I was sure, until Estelle denied it.”
“How was it you chanced to see her?”
“I was wakeful, and I was prowling around to find something to read. I went out in the hall and got a magazine from the table, and had returned to my room and was just closing the door, when I saw a white figure glide across the hall. She passed through a moonlit space or I could not have seen her. She was wrapped in a light or white kimono thing, and I should never have thought of it again if it were not for what has happened.”
“You knew it to be this Estelle?”
“Yes; her red hair was hanging in a braid.”
“’Tisn’t red!” snapped Estelle, but Mr. Scofield silenced her with a frown.
“Well, auburn, then,” said Haviland, easily. “You may as well own up, Estelle; what did you go down for?”
“I didn’t go,” repeated the maid, obstinately, and no cross-questioning could prevail on her to admit otherwise.
“All right,” and Haviland shrugged his shoulders; “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as the crime was committed about one o’clock. It’s up to you, Mr. Coroner, to find some person who acted suspiciously nearer that time. And, by the way, as man of business of this estate, unless some worthwhile evidence is forthcoming pretty soon, I’m going to round up a detective or two who will get somewhere.”
“Give us a little more time, Mr. Haviland,” said Scofield, suavely, “this inquest is only begun.”
“Well, get it over with, and then, if the truth hasn’t come to light, I’ll take a hand.”
Miss Frayne was called next, and Anita, with a look of importance on her pretty face, came forward.
Her evidence, at first, was merely a repetition of that already heard, and she corroborated Pauline’s recital of the scene as the two girls bade Miss Carrington good-night.
“And then?” prompted the Coroner.
“Then I went to my room, but I didn’t retire. I sat thinking over what Miss Carrington had said to me. And as I thought about it, I concluded that this time I was really dismissed from her secretaryship. And that made me feel very sorry, for it is a good position and I’ve no wish to lose it. So, – after a time, I began to think I would go to Miss Carrington’s room and if she were still up, I would beg her forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness for what?”
“For any fancied grievance she might have against me. I have always tried to please her, but she was, er, – difficult, and it was not easy to do the right thing at all times.”
“Did you go to her room?”
“I went to the door – ”
“At what time?”
“Soon after one o’clock. Not more than five or ten minutes after.”
There was a rustle of excitement. The poison was said to be administered at about one! Did this fair doll-like girl know the secret of the tragedy?
“Proceed, Miss Frayne; tell the story of anything you saw at that time.”
“I saw nothing. But I heard a great deal.”
“What was it?”
“The door of Miss Carrington’s room was closed, and I was about to tap at it, when I heard talking inside. I paused, and I listened, in order to discover if her maid was still with her, or some one else. If it had been Estelle, I should have tapped for admittance. But it was not.”
“Who was it?”
“I cannot say. The voice I heard distinctly was that of Miss Carrington herself. Her voice was high-pitched, and of what is called a carrying sort. The things she said were so strange, I lingered, listening, for I was so surprised I couldn’t help it.”
“First, I heard her say, quite plainly, ‘Your face is the most beautiful I have ever seen! I wish mine were as beautiful.’ I assumed, then, she must be talking to Miss Stuart, for surely she would not say that to her maid. Then she said, ‘But, to-morrow, I shall be forever freed from this homely face of mine.’”
“Miss Frayne, this is very singular! Are you sure you heard correctly?”
“I am sure. But there is more. She next said, ‘To-morrow you will be glad! —glad!’ It was almost a scream, that. And she went on, ‘To-morrow all these jewels will be yours, – if you – ah, but will you?’ and then her voice trailed off faintly, and I could hear no more.”
“You heard nothing more at all?”
“Yes; I waited, – oh, I admit I was eavesdropping, but it was so strange I couldn’t help it, – there was silence. It may well be some one else was replying to her, but I could not make out any other person’s words. A low voice would not be audible like a high-pitched one. But after a moment, Miss Carrington resumed; she said, ‘I shall change my will. Not Carr’s half, that must stand. But the other half shall never go to a niece who has no affection for me!’ Again I heard nothing, for the responses were inaudible. Then Miss Carrington said, in a musing tone: ‘I have already willed you ten thousand dollars of those United States bonds, but – ’ And then, after quite a long pause, Miss Carrington cried out, not loudly, but tensely, ‘Henri, Henri! you are the mark I aim at!’ That frightened me so, I ran swiftly back to my room, and locked the door.”
“You assumed Henri to be Count Charlier?”
“I had no other construction to put upon the words.”
“You thought the gentleman was in Miss Carrington’s room?”
“I couldn’t think that! And yet, it sounded as if she were speaking to him, not of him.”
“This is a very strange story, Miss Frayne. Have you mentioned these things you overheard to any one before this?”
“No. I have thought them over, and concluded it was best to tell the story first to you.”
“And quite right. It is, then, your opinion that there was another person in Miss Carrington’s room, to whom she was speaking?”
“It seemed so to me.”
“But you did not hear this other person’s voice?”
Anita paused a moment and then said: “Not distinctly.”
“Did you hear it at all?”
“I cannot say. When I did not hear Miss Carrington’s voice clearly, there were sounds that might have been another person or her own voice speaking more inaudibly.”
“Might it not be that she was merely talking to herself, – soliloquizing?”
“It could not have been that. She spoke definitely and decidedly to some one when she said ‘Your face is beautiful,’ and when she said, ‘I have willed you ten thousand dollars,’ indeed, every thing she said was as if spoken to some hearer; not as one who talks to herself.”
“After you regained your room, did you leave it again?”
“No, I did not.”
“H’m. Now, are you positive, Miss Frayne, that all these speeches were said just as you have repeated them? It is a great strain on the memory to repeat accurately a conversation as long as the one you have just rehearsed.”
“The speeches I heard are burned into my brain. I could not forget them if I would. I may have erred in some minor or unimportant words, but the most of what I heard is precisely as I have repeated it. Indeed, so thoroughly was I amazed at it all, I wrote it down as soon as I reached my room. I had then no thought of – of what was going to happen, but Miss Carrington had made peculiar remarks during the evening about something happening to her, and in connection with that the words I heard seemed so remarkable, – not to say uncanny, – that I made a note of them. This is not an unusual habit with me. I often make notes of conversations, as it has been useful in my services as secretary.”
“As how?”
“If a caller in a social or business way had conversation with Miss Carrington, and I was present, I often made a record, in case she asked me later just what had been said.”
“I see. And how do you interpret the words, ‘Henri, you are the mark I aim at?’”
“I can only think that Miss Carrington was in favor of considering a marriage between herself and the Count.”
“You made use of the word ‘uncanny.’ Do you imagine that Miss Carrington had any foreboding of her approaching doom?”
“When I heard her say, ‘To-morrow I will be forever freed from this homely face of mine,’ and ‘to-morrow all these jewels will be yours,’ I couldn’t help thinking, – after the discovery of her death, – that she must have anticipated it.”
“Did her voice sound like the despairing one of a person about to die?”
“On the contrary, it sounded full of life and animation.”
“Did she seem angry with the person to whom she was speaking?”
“At times, yes. And, again, no. Her voice showed varying emotions as she talked on.”
“Her speech was not continuous, then?”
“Not at all. It was broken, and in snatches. But, remember, I could not hear all of what she said, and the other person or persons not at all.”
“Did you not catch a word from the other voice?”
“I cannot say. Much, in a low tone, that I could not hear clearly, might have been Miss Carrington’s voice or another’s. The door was closed, and as soon as I realized there was some one there, not Estelle, I had no thought of knocking, and I soon went away. I ought to have gone away sooner, and would have done so, but I was so amazed and puzzled I stayed on involuntarily.”
“Your story, Miss Frayne, is very extraordinary. Can you suggest, from what you heard, who might have been in the room with Miss Carrington?”
“I can not, nor do I wish to. I have told you what I heard, it is for you to make deductions or discoveries.”
“I wish to say a word, Mr. Coroner,” and Pauline Stuart, with her dark eyes blazing, rose to her feet. “I am sorry to say this, but I must ask you to hesitate before you put too much faith in the amazing tale you have just listened to. I am sure Miss Frayne could not have heard all that nonsense! It is impossible, on the face of it, that my aunt should have received any one in her room after her maid left her. It is incredible that she should have made all those ridiculous and meaningless remarks! And it is despicable for any woman to imply or hint that Miss Carrington was receiving a gentleman caller! I am surprised that you even listened to what must be the ravings of a disordered mind!”
Pauline looked at Anita like an avenging goddess. But the darts of scorn from her dark eyes were met and returned in kind from the big blue ones of the secretary.
“I resent your tone and your words,” said Anita, deliberately; “but since you choose to adopt that attitude, I will go on to say what I had intended not to reveal, that I saw you coming from your aunt’s room, after the conversation I have told of took place.”
“Wait a minute,” said the Coroner; “you said that immediately after hearing the alleged conversation you went at once to your room, and did not leave it again.”
“Nor did I. But a few minutes later, unable to restrain my curiosity, I opened my door, and looked out. My position then commanded a full view of the hall, and I saw Miss Stuart go from her aunt’s room to her own.”
Pauline looked at the speaker. Coldly her glance swept back to the Coroner, and she said: “I deny that I was in my aunt’s room after leaving it at midnight in company with Miss Frayne. But she forces me to tell that I saw her going away from it at exactly quarter past one.”
“How do you fix the time so accurately?”
“I was sitting in the upper hall, – it is really a sitting-room, at the bay-windowed end, – looking at the moon. I, too, had been disturbed at my aunt’s attitude, and her threats to send me away to-day, and I had gone to the hall window-seat, a favorite haunt of mine, and had sat there for a half hour or more.”
“Could any one going through the hall see you?”
“Probably not, as the draperies are heavy, and I was in the deep window-seat. I was thinking I would go to my room, and then I saw Miss Frayne come from my aunt’s room and go to her own.”
“Are you sure she came from the room?”
“She was closing the door, her hand was on the knob. She did not see me, I am sure, for I drew back in the window and watched her. And just then I heard the hall clock chime the quarter after one.”
“You didn’t see Miss Frayne when she went to Miss Carrington’s room?”
“No; I suppose I was then looking out of the deep window.”
“Nor did you hear her?”
“No, the rugs are thick and a light foot-fall makes no sound.”
“What did you next do?”
“I went – I went straight to my own room.”
The slight hesitation told against Pauline. All through her testimony, all through her arraignment of Anita, – for it amounted to that, – she had been cool, calm and imperturbable. But now a momentary hesitation of speech, added perhaps, to the circumstantial story of Anita Frayne, caused a wave of doubt, – not enough to call suspicion, – but a questioning attitude to form in the minds of many of the audience.
To whom, if not Miss Stuart, could Miss Carrington’s remarks about beauty have been addressed? It was well known that Miss Lucy adored beauty and had all her life lamented her own lack of it. This was no secret woe of the poor lady’s. To any one who would listen, she would complain of her hard lot in having all the gifts of the gods except good looks. To whom else would she say ‘To-morrow all these jewels will be yours, – if you – ah, but will you?’
And yet, after all, it did not make sense. Was it not far more likely to be a figment of Miss Frayne’s clever mind, for what purpose who might say?
At any rate, their stories were contradictory and moreover were garbled.
The jurymen sighed. The case had been mysterious enough before, now it was becoming inexplicable.
