Marion D’Arblay was, as I have said, a strikingly handsome girl. The fact seemed now to dawn on me afresh, as a new discovery; for the harrowing circumstances of our former meeting had so preoccupied me that I had given little attention to her personality. But now, as I looked her over anxiously to see how the grievous days had dealt with her, it was with a sort of surprised admiration that I noted the beautiful, thoughtful face, the fine features, and the wealth of dark, gracefully disposed hair. I was relieved, too, to see the change that a couple of days had wrought. The wild, dazed look was gone. Though she was pale and heavy-eyed and looked tired and infinitely sad, her manner was calm, quiet and perfectly self-possessed.
“I am afraid,” said I, “that this is going to be rather a painful ordeal for you.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “it is all very dreadful. But it is a dreadful thing in any case to be bereft in a moment of the one whom one loves best in all the world. The circumstances of the loss cannot make very much difference. It is the loss itself that matters. The worst moment was when the blow fell—when we found him. This inquiry and the funeral are just the drab accompaniments that bring home the reality of what has happened.”
“Has the inspector called on you?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “He had to, to get the particulars; and he was so kind and delicate that I am not in the least afraid of the examination by the coroner. Everyone has been kind to me, but none so kind as you were on that terrible morning.”
I could not see that I had done anything to call for so much gratitude, and I was about to enter a modest disclaimer when the coroner and the jury returned, and the inspector approached somewhat hurriedly.
“It will be necessary,” said he, “for Miss D’Arblay to see the body—just to identify deceased; a glance will be enough. And, as you are a witness, Doctor, you had better go with her to the mortuary. I will show you the way.”
Miss D’Arblay rose without any comment or apparent reluctance, and we followed the inspector to the adjoining mortuary, where, having admitted us, he stood outside awaiting us. The body lay on the slate-topped table, covered with a sheet excepting the face, which was exposed and was undisfigured by any traces of the examination. I watched my friend a little nervously as we entered the grim chamber, fearful that this additional trial might be too much for her self-control. But she kept command of herself, though she wept quietly as she stood beside the table looking down on the still, waxen-faced figure. After standing thus for a few moments, she turned away with a smothered sob, wiped her eyes, and walked out of the mortuary.
When we reentered the courtroom, we found our chairs moved up to the table, and the coroner waiting to call the witnesses. As I had expected, my name was the first on the list, and, on being called, I took my place by the table near to the coroner and was duly sworn.
“Will you give us your name, occupation, and address?” the coroner asked.
“My name is Stephen Gray,” I replied. “I am a medical practitioner, and my temporary address is 61, Mecklenburgh Square, London.”
“When you say ‘your temporary address’ you mean—?”
“I am taking charge of a medical practice at that address. I shall be there six weeks or more.”
“Then that will be your address for our purposes. Have you viewed the body that is now lying in the mortuary, and, if so, do you recognize it?”
“Yes. It is the body which I saw lying in a pond in Churchyard Bottom Wood on the morning of the 16th instant—last Tuesday.”
“Can you tell us how long deceased had been dead when you first saw the body?”
“I should say he had been dead nine or ten hours.”
“Will you relate the circumstances under which you discovered the body?”
I gave a circumstantial account of the manner in which I made the tragic discovery, to which not only the jury but also the spectators listened with eager interest. When I had finished my narrative, the coroner asked: “Did you observe anything which led you, as a medical man, to form any opinion as to the cause of death?”
“No,” I replied. “I saw no injuries or marks of violence or anything which was not consistent with death by drowning.”
This concluded my evidence, and when I had resumed my seat, the name of Marion D’Arblay was called by the coroner, who directed that a chair should be placed for the witness. When she had taken her seat, he conveyed to her, briefly, but feelingly, his own and the jury’s sympathy.
“It has been a terrible experience for you,” he said, “and we are most sorry to have to trouble you in your great affliction, but you will understand that it is unavoidable.”
“I quite understand that,” she replied, “and I wish to thank you and the jury for your kind sympathy.”
She was then sworn, and having given her name and address, proceeded to answer the questions addressed to her, which elicited a narrative of the events substantially identical with that which she had given to the inspector and which I have already recorded.
“You have told us,” said the coroner, “that when Dr. Gray spoke to you, you were searching among the bushes. Will you tell us what was in your mind—what you were searching for, and what induced you to make that search?”
“I was very uneasy about my father,” she replied. “He had not been home that night, and he had not told me
