“What have they been doing all the morning?” he asked. “Anything important?”
“No,” was the surly reply. “A score of folks have had their say, but not one of them has told anything worth listening to. Nobody has seen anything, nobody knows anything. The murderer might have risen up through the floor to deal his blow, and having given it, sunk back again with the same supernatural claptrap, for all these stupid people seem to know about him.”
The man had a loud voice, and as he made no attempt to modulate it, his words were heard on all sides. Naturally many heads were turned toward him, and more than one person looked at him with an amused smile. Indeed, of all the various individuals in his immediate vicinity, only one forbore to take any notice of his remark. This was a heavy, lymphatic, and somewhat abstracted-looking fellow of nondescript appearance, who stood stiff and straight as an exclamation point against the jamb of the doorway that led into the front hall.
“But have no facts been obtained, no conclusions reached, that would serve to awaken suspicion or put justice on the right track?” pursued Mr. Byrd, lowering his voice in intimation for the other to do the same.
But that other was of an obstinate tendency, and his reply rose full and loud.
“No, unless it can be considered proved that it is only folly to try and find out who commits a crime in these days. Nothing else has come to light, as far as I can see, and that much we all knew before.”
A remark of this kind was not calculated to allay the slight inclination to mirth which his former observation had raised; but the coroner rapping with his gavel on the table at this moment, every other consideration was lost in the natural curiosity which everyone felt as to who the next witness would be.
But the coroner had something to say before he called for further testimony.
“Gentlemen,” he remarked, in a clear and commanding tone that at once secured attention and awakened interest, “we have spent the morning in examining the persons who live in this street, with a view to ascertaining, if possible, who was in conversation with Mrs. Clemmens at the time the tramp went up to her door.”
Was it a coincidence, or was there something in the words themselves that called forth the stir that at this moment took place among the people assembled directly before Mr. Byrd? It was of the slightest character, and was merely momentary in its duration; nevertheless, it attracted his attention, especially as it seemed to have its origin in a portion of the room shut off from his observation by the corner of the wall already alluded to.
The coroner proceeded without pause.
“The result, as you know, has not been satisfactory. No one seems to be able to tell us who it was that visited Mrs. Clemmens on that day. I now propose to open another examination of a totally different character, which I hope may be more conclusive in its results. Miss Firman, are you prepared to give your testimony?”
Immediately a tall, gaunt, but pleasant-faced woman arose from the dim recesses of the parlor. She was dressed with decency, if not taste, and took her stand before the jury with a ladylike yet perfectly assured air that promised well for the correctness and discretion of her answers. The coroner at once addressed her.
“Your full name, madam?”
“Emily Letitia Firman, sir.”
“Emily!” ejaculated Mr. Byrd, to himself, with a throb of sudden interest. “That is the name of the murdered woman’s correspondent.”
“Your birthplace,” pursued the coroner, “and the place of your present residence?”
“I was born in Danbury, Connecticut,” was the reply, “and I am living in Utica, where I support my aged mother by dressmaking.”
“How are you related to Mrs. Clemmens, the lady who was found murdered here two days ago?”
“I am her second cousin; her grandmother and my mother were sisters.”
“Upon what terms have you always lived, and what can you tell us of her other relatives and connections?”
“We have always been friends, and I can tell you all that is generally known of the two or three remaining persons of her blood and kindred. They are, first, my mother and myself, who, as I have before said, live in Utica, where I am connected with the dressmaking establishment of Madame Trebelle; and, secondly, a nephew of hers, the son of a favorite brother, whom she has always supported, and to whom she has frequently avowed her intention of leaving her accumulated savings.”
“The name of this gentleman and his place of residence?”
“His name is Mansell—Craik Mansell—and he lives in Buffalo, where he has a situation of some trust in the large paper manufactory of Harrison, Goodman, & Chamberlin.”
Buffalo! Mr. Byrd gave an involuntary start, and became, if possible, doubly attentive.
The coroner’s questions went on.
“Do you know this young man?”
“Yes, sir. He has been several times to our house in the course of the last five years.”
“What can you tell us of his nature and disposition, as well as of his regard for the woman who proposed to benefit him so materially by her will?”
“Well, sir,” returned Miss Firman, “it is hard to read the nature and feelings of any man who has much character, and Craik Mansell has a good deal of character. But I have always thought him a very honest and capable young man, who might do us credit some day, if he were allowed to have his own way and not be interfered with too much. As for his feelings toward his aunt, they were doubtless those of gratitude, though I have never heard him express himself in any very affectionate terms toward her, owing, no doubt, to a natural reticence
