None of us could read the thoughts behind his rather swarthy face. His coal-black eyes were alike unfathomable: whether he believed that the murderer was then sitting in our circle we could not guess. “Of course this is not an official inquest,” he told us. “The real inquest can’t be held until there is a body to hold it over. I’m doing this in co-operation with the sheriff. And of course I needn’t tell you that all of you are held here, with orders not to leave the immediate grounds, until a formal inquest can be held.”
“But what if you never find the body?” Marten asked. “Some of us—can’t stay forever.”
“The law takes heed of no man’s business,” the coroner answered, somewhat sternly. “However, I’ll have counsel from the state in a few days, and then we can tell what to do. The district attorney will be here just as soon as his work will permit.”
He called Nealman first. Except for a strange and startling deepening of the worry-line between his brows I would have thought that he was wholly unshaken. Weldon asked his name, place of birth, thirdly his occupation.
“I can’t hardly say—I’m interested in finance,” Nealman said in reply to the third question.
“And how long have you occupied this house?”
“Less than a month. I bought it last winter, but it has been under the charge of—of a caretaker until that time.”
“Who was the caretaker?”
Nealman’s voice fell a note. “Florey—the man murdered last night.”
“Ah.” The coroner paused an instant, as if deep in thought. “And how did he happen to come into your employ?”