e hanging in the hall, opened one of the back doors and rushed
outside.

"And why did you do that, pray?" asked the coroner, looking at him
fixedly.

"I thought that someone might be lurking in the garden," the man
responded, a trifle lamely.

The solicitor of Mrs. Courtenay's family, to whom she had sent asking
him to be present on her behalf, rose at this juncture and addressing
the coroner, said:

"I should like to put a question to the witness, sir. I represent the
deceased's family."

"As you wish," replied the coroner. "But do you consider such a course
wise at this stage of the inquiry? There must be an adjournment."

He understood the coroner's objection and, acquiescing, sat down.

Nurse Kate and the cook were called, and afterwards Ethelwynn, who,
dressed in black and wearing a veil, looked pale and fragile as she
drew off her glove in order to take the oath.

As she stood there our eyes met for an instant; then she turned
towards her questioner, bracing herself for the ordeal.

"When did you last see the deceased alive?" asked the coroner, after
the usual formal inquiry as to her name and connection with the
family.

"At ten o'clock in the evening. Dr. Boyd visited him, and found him
much better. After the doctor had gone I went upstairs and found the
nurse with him, giving him his medicine. He was still sitting before
the fire."

"Was he in his usual spirits?"

"Quite."

"What was the character of your conversation with him? I understand
that Mrs. Courtenay, your sister, was out at the time. Did he remark
upon her absence?"

"Yes. He said it was a wet night, and he hoped she would not take
cold, for she was so careless of herself."

The coroner bent to his paper and wrote down her reply.

"And you did not see him alive again."

"No."

"You entered the room after he was dead, I presume?"

"No. I--I hadn't the courage," she faltered. "They told me that he was
dead--that he had been stabbed to the heart."

Again the coroner bent to his writing. What, I wondered, would those
present think if I produced the little piece of stained chenille which
I kept wrapped in tissue paper and hidden in my fusee-box?

To them it, of course, seemed quite natural that a delicate woman
should hesitate to view a murdered man. But if they knew of my
discovery they would detect that she was an admirable actress--that
her horror of the dead was feigned, and that she was not telling the
truth. I, who knew