The coroner, upon whom the blonde loveliness of Mary had impressed itself to Eleanor’s apparent detriment, was the only one in the room who showed himself unaffected at this moment. Turning toward the witness with a look which, while respectful, had a touch of austerity in it, he began:
“You have been an intimate of Mr. Leavenworth’s family from childhood, they tell me, Miss Leavenworth?”
“From my tenth year,” was her quiet reply.
It was the first time I had heard her voice, and it surprised me; it was so like, and yet so unlike, that of her cousin. Similar in tone, it lacked its expressiveness, if I may so speak; sounding without vibration on the ear, and ceasing without an echo.
“Since that time you have been treated like a daughter, they tell me?”
“Yes, sir, like a daughter, indeed; he was more than a father to both of us.”
“You and Miss Mary Leavenworth are cousins, I believe. When did she enter the family?”
“At the same time I did. Our respective parents were victims of the same disaster. If it had not been for our uncle, we should have been thrown, children as we were, upon the world. But he”—here she paused, her firm lips breaking into a half tremble—“but he, in the goodness of his heart, adopted us into his family, and gave us what we had both lost, a father and a home.”
“You say he was a father to you as well as to your cousin—that he adopted you. Do you mean by that, that he not only surrounded you with present luxury, but gave you to understand that the same should be secured to you after his death; in short, that he intended to leave any portion of his property to you?”
“No, sir; I was given to understand, from the first, that his property would be bequeathed by will to my cousin.”
“Your cousin was no more nearly related to him than yourself, Miss Leavenworth; did he never give you any reason for this evident partiality?”
“None but his pleasure, sir.”
Her answers up to this point had been so straightforward and satisfactory that a gradual confidence seemed to be taking the place of the rather uneasy doubts which had from the first circled about this woman’s name and person. But at this admission, uttered as it was in a calm, unimpassioned voice, not only the jury, but myself, who had so much truer reason for distrusting her, felt that actual suspicion in her case must be very much shaken before the utter lack of motive which this reply so clearly betokened.
Meanwhile the coroner continued: “If your uncle was as kind to you as you say, you must have become very much attached to him?”
“Yes, sir,” her mouth taking a sudden determined curve.
“His death, then, must have been a great shock to you?”
“Very, very great.”
“Enough of itself to make you faint away, as they tell me you did, at the first glimpse you had of his body?”
“Enough, quite.”
“And yet you seemed to be prepared for it?”
“Prepared?”
“The servants say you were much agitated at finding your uncle did not make his appearance at the breakfast table.”
“The servants!” her tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of her mouth; she could hardly speak.
“That when you returned from his room you were very pale.”
Was she beginning to realize that there was some doubt, if not actual suspicion, in the mind of the man who could assail her with questions like these? I had not seen her so agitated since that one memorable instant up in her room. But her mistrust, if she felt any, did not long betray itself. Calming herself by a great effort, she replied, with a quiet gesture—
“That is not so strange. My uncle was a very methodical man; the least change in his habits would be likely to awaken our apprehensions.”
“You were alarmed, then?”
“To a certain extent I was.”
“Miss Leavenworth, who is in the habit of overseeing the regulation of your uncle’s private apartments?”
“I am, sir.”
“You are doubtless, then, acquainted with a certain stand in his room containing a drawer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long is it since you had occasion to go to this drawer?”
“Yesterday,” visibly trembling at the admission.
“At what time?”
“Near noon, I should judge.”
“Was the pistol he was accustomed to keep there in its place at the time?”
“I presume so; I did not observe.”
“Did you turn the key upon closing the drawer?”
“I did.”
“Take it out?”
“No, sir.”
“Miss Leavenworth, that pistol, as you have perhaps observed, lies on the table before you. Will you look at it?” And lifting it up into view, he held it towards her.
If he had meant to startle her by the sudden action, he amply succeeded. At the first sight of the murderous weapon she shrank back, and a horrified, but quickly suppressed shriek, burst from her lips. “Oh, no, no!” she moaned, flinging out her hands before her.
“I must insist upon your looking at it, Miss Leavenworth,” pursued the coroner. “When it was found just now, all the chambers were loaded.”
Instantly the agonized look left her countenance. “Oh, then—” She did not finish, but put out her hand for the weapon.
But the coroner, looking at her steadily, continued: “It has been lately fired off, for all that. The hand that cleaned the barrel forgot the cartridge-chamber, Miss Leavenworth.”
She did not shriek again, but a hopeless, helpless look slowly settled over her face, and she seemed about to sink; but like a flash the reaction came, and lifting her head with a steady, grand action I have never seen equalled, she exclaimed, “Very well, what then?”
The coroner laid the
