"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 cook threw her apron over her head. "Yesterday afternoon, with the rest of the clothes, just before dinner. Indade, I could not help it, Miss Eleanore!" she whispered; "it was the truth."
Eleanore Leavenworth frowned. This somewhat contradictory evidence had very sensibly affected her; and when, a moment later, the coroner, having dismissed the witness, turned towards her, and inquired if she had anything further to say in the way of explanation or otherwise, she threw her hands up almost spasmodically, slowly shook her head and, without word or warning, fainted quietly away in her chair.
A commotion, of course, followed, during which I noticed that Mary did not hasten to her cousin, but left it for Molly and Kate to do what they could toward her resuscitation. In a few moments this was in so far accomplished that they were enabled to lead her from the room. As they did so, I observed a tall man rise and follow her out.
A momentary silence ensued, soon broken, however, by an impatient stir as our little juryman rose and proposed that the jury should now adjourn for the day. This seeming to fall in with the coroner's views, he announced that the inquest would stand adjourned till three o'clock the next day, when he trusted all the jurors would be present.
A general rush followed, that in a few minutes emptied the room of all but Miss Leavenworth, Mr. Gryce, and myself.
"His rolling Eies did never rest in place,
But walkte each where for feare of hid mischance,
Holding a lattis still before his Pace,
Through which he still did peep as forward he did pace."
--Faerie Queene.
MISS LEAVENWORTH, who appeared to have lingered from a vague terror of everything and everybody in the house not under her immediate observation, shrank from my side the moment she found herself left comparatively alone, and, retiring to a distant corner, gave herself up to grief. Turning my attention, therefore, in the direction of Mr. Gryce, I found that person busily engaged in counting his own fingers with a troubled expression upon his countenance, which may or may not have been the result of that arduous employment. But, at my approach, satisfied perhaps that he possessed no more than the requisite number, he dropped his hands and greeted me with a faint smile which was, considering all things, too suggestive to be pleasant.
"Well," said I, taking my stand before him, "I cannot blame you. You had a right to do as you thought best; but how had you the heart? Was she not sufficiently compromised without your bringing out that wretched handkerchief, which she may or may not have dropped in that room, but whose presence there, soiled though it was with pistol grease, is certainly no proof that she herself was connected with this murder?"
"Mr. Raymond," he returned, "I have been detailed as police officer and detective to look after this case, and I propose to do it."
"Of course," I hastened to reply. "I am the last man to wish you to shirk your duly; but you cannot have the temerity to declare that this young and tender creature can by any possibility be considered as at all likely to be implicated in a crime so monstrous and unnatural. The mere assertion of another woman's suspicions on the subject ought not—"
But here Mr. Gryce interrupted me. "You talk when your attention should be directed to more important matters. That other woman, as you are pleased to designate the fairest ornament of New York society, sits over there in tears; go and comfort her."
Looking at him in amazement, I hesitated to comply; but, seeing he was in earnest, crossed to Mary Leavenworth and sat down by her side. She was weeping, but in a slow, unconscious way, as if grief had been mastered by fear. The fear was too undisguised and the grief too natural for me to doubt the genuineness of either.
"Miss Leavenworth," said I, "any attempt at consolation on the part of a stranger must seem at a time like this the most bitter of mockeries; but do try and consider that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof."
Starting with surprise, she turned her eyes upon me with a slow, comprehensive gaze wonderful to see in orbs so tender and womanly.
"No," she repeated; "circumstantial evidence is not absolute proof, but Eleanore does not know this. She is so intense; she cannot see but one thing at a time. She has been running her head into a noose, and oh,—" Pausing, she clutched my arm with a passionate grasp: "Do you think there is any danger? Will they—" She could not go on.
"Miss Leavenworth," I protested, with a warning look toward the detective, "what do you mean?"
Like a flash, her glance followed mine, an instant change taking place in her bearing.
"Your cousin may be intense," I went on, as if nothing had occurred; "but I do not know to what you refer when you say she has been running her head into a noose."
"I mean this," she firmly returned: "that, wittingly or unwittingly, she has so parried and met the questions which have been put to her in this room that any one listening to her would give her the credit of knowing more than she ought to of this horrible affair. She acts"—Mary whispered, but not so low but that every word could be distinctly heard in all quarters of the room—"as if she were anxious to conceal something. But she is not; I am sure she is not. Eleanore and I are not good friends; but all the world can never make me believe she has any more knowledge of this murder than I have. Won't somebody tell her, then—won't you—that her manner is a mistake; that it is calculated to arouse suspicion; that it has already done so? And oh, don't forget to add"—her voice sinking to a decided whisper now— "what you have just repeated to me: that circumstantial evidence is not always absolute proof."
I surveyed her with great astonishment. What an actress this woman was!
"You request me to tell her this," said I. "Wouldn't it be better for you to speak to her yourself?"
"Eleanore and I hold little or no confidential communication," she replied.
I could easily believe this, and yet I was puzzled. Indeed, there was something incomprehensible in her whole manner. Not knowing what else to say, I remarked, "That is unfortunate. She ought to be told that the straightforward course is the best by all means."
Mary Leavenworth only wept. "Oh, why has this awful trouble come to me, who have always been so happy before!"
"Perhaps for the very reason that you have always been so happy."
"It was not enough for dear uncle to die in this horrible manner; but she, my own cousin, had to—"
I touched her arm, and the action seemed to recall her to herself. Stopping short, she bit her lip.
"Miss Leavenworth," I whispered, "you should hope for the best. Besides, I honestly believe you to be disturbing yourself unnecessarily. If nothing fresh transpires, a mere prevarication or so of your cousin's will not suffice to injure her."