the evidence still strongly points to that, I am sure that there is a possibility, at least, that it is not true.â
âMay I learn the details of the case? May I go into the library?â said Fessenden, hesitating to approach the closed door until invited.
âYes, indeed; Iâll take you in at once. Doctor Leonard, who is in there, is the county physician, and, though a bit brusque in his manner, he is an honest old soul, and does unflinchingly what he judges to be his duty.â
Neither then nor at any time, neither to Doctor Leonard himself nor to any one else, did Doctor Hills ever mention the difference of opinion which the two men had held for so long the night before, nor did he tell how he had proved his own theory so positively that Doctor Leonard had been obliged to confess himself wrong. It was not in Doctor Hillsâ nature to say âI told you so,â and, fully appreciating this, Doctor Leonard said nothing either, but threw himself into the case heart and soul in his endeavors to seek truth and justice.
Fessenden and Doctor Hills entered the library, where everything was much as it had been the night before. At one time the doctors had been about to move the body to a couch, and to remove the disfigured gown, but after Doctor Leonard had been persuaded to agree with Doctor Hillsâ view of the case, they had left everything untouched until the coroner should come.
The discovery of this was a satisfaction to Robert Fessenden. His detective instinct had begun to assert itself, and he was glad of an opportunity to examine the room before the arrival of the coroner. Though not seeming unduly curious, his eyes darted about in an eager search for possible clues of any sort. Without touching them, he examined the dagger, the written paper, the appointments of the library table, and the body itself, with its sweet, sad face, its drooping posture, and its tragically stained raiment.
In true detective fashion he scrutinized the carpet, glanced at the window fastenings, and noted the appointments of the library table.
The only thing Fessenden touched, however, was a lead pencil which lay on the pen-rack. It was an ordinary pencil, but he gazed intently at the gilt lettering stamped upon it, and then returned it to its place.
Again he glanced quickly but carefully at every article on the table, and then, taking a chair, sat quietly in a corner, unobtrusive but alert.
With something of a bustling air the coroner came in. Coroner Benson was a fussy sort of man, with a somewhat exaggerated sense of his own importance.
He paused with what he probably considered a dramatic start when he saw the dead body of Miss Van Norman, and, shaking his head, said, âAlas! Alas!â in tragic tones.
Miss Morton and Kitty French had followed him in, and stood arm in arm, a little bewildered, but determined to know whatever might transpire. Cicely Dupuy and Miss Markham had also come in.
But after a glance round and a preliminary clearing of his throat, he at once requested that everybody except the two doctors should leave the room.
Fessenden and Kitty French were greatly disappointed at this, but the others went out with a feeling of relief, for the strain was beginning to tell upon the nerves of all concerned.
As usual, Miss Morton tried to exercise her powers of generalship, and directed that they should all assemble in the drawing-room until recalled to learn the coronerâs opinion.
Mrs. Markham, unheeding Miss Mortonâs dictum, went away to attend to her household duties, and Cicely went to her own room, but the others waited in the drawing-room. They were joined shortly by Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, who arrived at about the same time.
Mr. Carleton, never a robust man, looked like a wreck of his former self. Years had been added to his apparent age; his impassive face wore a look of stony grief, and his dark eyes seemed filled with an unutterable horror.
Tom Willard, on the
âMay I learn the details of the case? May I go into the library?â said Fessenden, hesitating to approach the closed door until invited.
âYes, indeed; Iâll take you in at once. Doctor Leonard, who is in there, is the county physician, and, though a bit brusque in his manner, he is an honest old soul, and does unflinchingly what he judges to be his duty.â
Neither then nor at any time, neither to Doctor Leonard himself nor to any one else, did Doctor Hills ever mention the difference of opinion which the two men had held for so long the night before, nor did he tell how he had proved his own theory so positively that Doctor Leonard had been obliged to confess himself wrong. It was not in Doctor Hillsâ nature to say âI told you so,â and, fully appreciating this, Doctor Leonard said nothing either, but threw himself into the case heart and soul in his endeavors to seek truth and justice.
Fessenden and Doctor Hills entered the library, where everything was much as it had been the night before. At one time the doctors had been about to move the body to a couch, and to remove the disfigured gown, but after Doctor Leonard had been persuaded to agree with Doctor Hillsâ view of the case, they had left everything untouched until the coroner should come.
The discovery of this was a satisfaction to Robert Fessenden. His detective instinct had begun to assert itself, and he was glad of an opportunity to examine the room before the arrival of the coroner. Though not seeming unduly curious, his eyes darted about in an eager search for possible clues of any sort. Without touching them, he examined the dagger, the written paper, the appointments of the library table, and the body itself, with its sweet, sad face, its drooping posture, and its tragically stained raiment.
In true detective fashion he scrutinized the carpet, glanced at the window fastenings, and noted the appointments of the library table.
The only thing Fessenden touched, however, was a lead pencil which lay on the pen-rack. It was an ordinary pencil, but he gazed intently at the gilt lettering stamped upon it, and then returned it to its place.
Again he glanced quickly but carefully at every article on the table, and then, taking a chair, sat quietly in a corner, unobtrusive but alert.
With something of a bustling air the coroner came in. Coroner Benson was a fussy sort of man, with a somewhat exaggerated sense of his own importance.
He paused with what he probably considered a dramatic start when he saw the dead body of Miss Van Norman, and, shaking his head, said, âAlas! Alas!â in tragic tones.
Miss Morton and Kitty French had followed him in, and stood arm in arm, a little bewildered, but determined to know whatever might transpire. Cicely Dupuy and Miss Markham had also come in.
But after a glance round and a preliminary clearing of his throat, he at once requested that everybody except the two doctors should leave the room.
Fessenden and Kitty French were greatly disappointed at this, but the others went out with a feeling of relief, for the strain was beginning to tell upon the nerves of all concerned.
As usual, Miss Morton tried to exercise her powers of generalship, and directed that they should all assemble in the drawing-room until recalled to learn the coronerâs opinion.
Mrs. Markham, unheeding Miss Mortonâs dictum, went away to attend to her household duties, and Cicely went to her own room, but the others waited in the drawing-room. They were joined shortly by Tom Willard and Schuyler Carleton, who arrived at about the same time.
Mr. Carleton, never a robust man, looked like a wreck of his former self. Years had been added to his apparent age; his impassive face wore a look of stony grief, and his dark eyes seemed filled with an unutterable horror.
Tom Willard, on the
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