“Nothing of the sort,” returned the quick, snappy voice. “I knew it before that.”
“And you just said you learned of it first when the will was read!”
“Well, I forgot. Madeleine told me the day I came here last year that she had made a will leaving the house to me, because she thought it should have been mine anyway.”
“The day you were here last year, she told you this?”
“Yes, we had a little conversation on the subject, and she told me.”
“Why did you not say this when I first asked you concerning the matter?”
“I forgot it.” Miss Morton spoke nonchalantly, as if contradicting oneself was a matter of no moment.
“Then you knew of your legacy before Miss Van Norman died?”
“Yes, now that I think of it, I believe I did.”
She was certainly a difficult witness. She seemed unable to look upon the questions as important, and her answers were given either in a flippant or savage manner.
“Then why did you go to Miss Van Norman’s room to look for her will that night?”
“Her will? I didn’t!”
“No, not the will that bequeathed you the house, but a later will that made a different disposal of it.”
“There wasn’t such a one,” said Miss Morton, in a low, scared voice.
“What, then, was the paper which you took from Miss Van Norman’s desk, carried to your own room, and burned?”
The coroner’s voice was not persuasive now; it was accusing, and his face was stern as he awaited her reply.
Again Miss Morton’s face blanched to white. Her thin lips formed a straight line, and her eyes fell, but her voice was strong and sibilant, as she fairly hissed:
“How dare you! Of what do you accuse me?”
“Of burning a paper which you took secretly from Miss Van Norman’s private desk.”
A moment’s hesitation, and then, “I did not do it,” she said clearly.
“But you were seen to do it.”
“By whom?”
“By a disinterested and credible witness.”
“By a sly, spying French servant!”
“It matters not by whom; you are asked to explain the act of burning that paper.”
“I have nothing to explain. I deny it.”
And try as he would Mr. Benson could not prevail upon Miss Morton to admit that she had burned a paper.
He confronted her with the witness, Marie, but Miss Morton coldly refused to listen to her, or to pay any attention to what she said. She insisted that Marie was not speaking the truth, and as the matter rested between the two, there was nothing more to be done.
Kitty French said that she saw Miss Morton go into Madeleine’s room, and afterward go upstairs to her own room, but she knew nothing about the papers in question.
Still adhering to her denial of Marie’s story, Miss Morton was excused from the witness stand.
Another witness called was Dorothy Burt. Fessenden was sorry that this had to be, for he dreaded to have the fact of Carleton’s infatuation for this girl brought into public notice.
Miss Burt was a model witness, as to her manner and demeanor. She answered promptly and clearly all the coroner’s questions, and at first Rob thought that perhaps she was, after all, the innocent child that Carleton thought her.
But he couldn’t help realizing, as the cross-questioning went on, that Miss Burt really gave very little information of any value. Perhaps because she had none to give, perhaps because she chose to withhold it.
“Your name?” Mr. Benson had first asked.
“Dorothy Burt,” was the answer, and the modest voice, with a touch of sadness, as befitting the occasion, seemed to have just the right ring to it.
“Your occupation?”
“I am companion and social secretary to Mrs. Carleton.”
“Do you know of anything that can throw any light on any part of the mystery surrounding the death of Miss Van Norman?”
Miss Burt drew her pretty eyebrows slightly together, and thought a moment.
“No,” she said quietly; “I am sure I do not.”
So gentle and sweet was she, that many a questioner would have dismissed her then and there; but Mr. Benson, hoping to get at least a shred of evidence bearing on Schuyler Carleton’s strange behavior, continued to question her.
“Tell us, please, Miss Burt, what you know of Mr. Carleton’s actions on the night of Miss Van Norman’s death.”
“Mr. Carleton’s actions?” The delicate eyebrows lifted as if in perplexity at the question.
“Yes; detail his actions, so far as you know them, from the time he came home to dinner that evening.”
“Why, let me see;” pretty Dorothy looked thoughtful again. “He came to dinner, as usual. Mr. Fessenden was there, but no other guest. After dinner we all sat in the music room. I played a little—just some snatches of certain music that Mrs. Carleton is fond of. Mr. Carleton and Mr. Fessenden chatted together.”
Rob raised his own eyebrows a trifle at this. Carleton had not been at all chatty; indeed, Fessenden and Mrs. Carleton had sustained the burden of the conversation; and while Miss Burt had played, it had been bits of romantic music that Rob felt sure had been for Schuyler’s delectation more than his mother’s.
“Is that all?” said Mr. Benson.
“Yes, I think so,” said Miss Burt; “we all went to our rooms early, as the next day was the day appointed for Mr. Carleton’s wedding, and we assumed he wanted to be alone.”
Rob looked up astounded. Was she going to make no mention of the stroll in the rose-garden? He almost hoped she wouldn’t, and yet that was certainly the evidence Mr. Benson was after.
“You said good night to Mr. Carleton at what time, then?” was the next rather peculiar question.
It might have been imagination, but Fessenden thought the girl was going to name an earlier hour, then, catching sight of Rob’s steady eyes upon her, she hesitated an instant, and then said: “About ten o’clock, I think.”
“Mrs. Carleton and Mr. Fessenden went to their rooms at the same time?”
Dorothy Burt turned very pale. She shot a quick
