Before a table strewn with papers, in the room we have already mentioned as given over to the use of the police, sat Dr. Heath in a mood too thoughtful to notice the entrance of Mr. Gryce and Sweetwater from the dining-room where they had been having dinner.
However as the former’s tread was somewhat lumbering, the coroner’s attention was caught before they had quite crossed the room, and Sweetwater, with his quick eye, noted how his arm and hand immediately fell so as to cover up a portion of the papers lying nearest to him.
“Well, Gryce, this is a dark case,” he observed, as at his bidding the two detectives took their seats.
Mr. Gryce nodded; so did Sweetwater.
“The darkest that has ever come to my knowledge,” pursued the coroner.
Mr. Gryce again nodded; but not so, Sweetwater. For some reason this simple expression of opinion seemed to have given him a mental start.
“She was not shot. She was not struck by any other hand; yet she lies dead from a mortal wound in the breast. Though there is no tangible proof of her having inflicted this wound upon herself, the jury will have no alternative, I fear, than to pronounce the case one of suicide.”
“I’m sorry that I’ve been able to do so little,” remarked Mr. Gryce.
The coroner darted him a quick look.
“You are not satisfied? You have some different idea?” he asked.