Mary Leavenworth’s violet eyes opened wonderingly.
“Yes, sir; but that was nothing.”
“You remember, however, her coming into the hall?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With a paper in her hand?”
“Paper?” and she wheeled suddenly and looked at her cousin. “Did you have a paper, Eleanore?”
The moment was intense.
Eleanore Leavenworth, who at the first mention of the word paper had started perceptibly, rose to her feet at this naive appeal, and opening her lips, seemed about to speak, when the coroner, with a strict sense of what was regular, lifted his hand with decision, and said:
“You need not ask your cousin, Miss; but let us hear what you have to say yourself.”
Immediately, Eleanore Leavenworth sank back, a pink spot breaking out on either cheek; while a slight murmur testified to the disappointment of those in the room, who were more anxious to have their curiosity gratified than the forms of law adhered to.
Satisfied with having done his duty, and disposed to be easy with so charming a witness, the coroner repeated his question.
“Tell us, if you please, if you saw any such thing in her hand?”
“I?
Oh, no, no; I saw nothing.”
Being now questioned in relation to the events of the previous night, she had no new light to throw upon the subject.
She acknowledged her uncle to have been a little reserved at dinner, but no more so than at previous times when annoyed by some business anxiety.
Asked if she had seen her uncle again that evening, she said no, that she had been detained in her room.
That the sight of him, sitting in his seat at the head of the table, was the very last remembrance she had of him.
There was something so touching, so forlorn, and yet so unobtrusive, in this simple recollection of hers, that a look of sympathy passed slowly around the room.
I even detected Mr. Gryce softening towards the inkstand.
But Eleanore Leavenworth sat unmoved.
“Was your uncle on ill terms with any one?” was now asked. “Had he valuable papers or secret sums of money in his possession?”
To all these inquiries she returned an equal negative.
“Has your uncle met any stranger lately, or received any important letter during the last few weeks, which might seem in any way to throw light upon this mystery?”
There was the slightest perceptible hesitation in her voice, as she replied:
“No, not to my knowledge; I don’t know of any such.” But here, stealing a side glance at Eleanore, she evidently saw something that reassured her, for she hastened to add: “I believe I may go further than that, and meet your question with a positive no.
My uncle was in the habit of confiding in me, and I should have known if anything of importance to him had occurred.”
Questioned in regard to Hannah, she gave that person the best of characters; knew of nothing which could have led either to her strange disappearance, or to her connection with crime.
Could not say whether she kept any company, or had any visitors; only knew that no one with any such pretensions came to the house.
Finally, when asked when she had last seen the pistol which Mr. Leavenworth always kept in his stand drawer, she returned, not since the day he bought it; Eleanore, and not herself, having the charge of her uncle’s apartments.
It was the only thing she had said which, even to a mind freighted like mine, would seem to point to any private doubt or secret suspicion; and this, uttered in the careless manner in which it was, would have passed without comment if Eleanore herself had not directed at that moment a very much aroused and inquiring look upon the speaker.
But it was time for the inquisitive juror to make himself heard again.
Edging to the brink of the chair, he drew in his breath, with a vague awe of Mary’s beauty, almost ludicrous to see, and asked if she had properly considered what she had just said.
“I hope, sir, I consider all I am called upon to say at such a time as this,” was her earnest reply.
The little juror drew back, and I looked to see her examination terminate, when suddenly his ponderous colleague of the watch-chain, catching the young lady’s eye, inquired:
“Miss Leavenworth, did your uncle ever make a will?”
Instantly every man in the room was in arms, and even she could not prevent the slow blush of injured pride from springing to her cheek.
But her answer was given firmly, and without any show of resentment.
“Yes, sir,” she returned simply.
“More than one?”
“I never heard of but one.”
“Are you acquainted with the contents of that will?”
“I am.
He made no secret of his intentions to any one.”
The juryman lifted his eye-glass and looked at her.
Her grace was little to him, or her beauty or her elegance.
“Perhaps, then, you can tell me who is the one most likely to be benefited by his death?”
The brutality of this question was too marked to pass unchallenged.
Not a man in that room, myself included, but frowned with sudden disapprobation.
But Mary Leavenworth, drawing herself up, looked her interlocutor calmly in the face, and restrained herself to say: