“Or what?”
“Or just with her sister, sir.”
The defiance with which this was said added point to what otherwise might have been an unimportant admission. Those who had already scrutinized Miss Tuttle with the curiosity of an ill-defined suspicion now scrutinized her with a more palpable one, and those who had hitherto seen nothing in this heavily-veiled woman but the bereaved sister of an irresponsible suicide allowed their looks to dwell piercingly on that concealing veil, as if they would be glad to penetrate its folds and read in those beautiful features the meaning of an allusion uttered with such a sting in the tone.
“You refer to Miss Tuttle?” observed the coroner.
“Mrs. Jeffrey’s sister? Yes, sir.” The menace was gone from the voice now, but no one could forget that it had been there.
“Miss Tuttle lived in the house with her sister, did she not?”
“Yes, sir; till that sister died and was buried; then she went away.”
The coroner did not pursue this topic, preferring to return to the former one.
“So you say that Mrs. Jeffrey showed uneasiness ever since her wedding day. Can you give me any instance of this; mention, I mean, any conversations overheard by you which would show us just what you mean?”
“I don’t like to repeat things I hear. But if you say that I must, I can remember once passing Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey in the hall, just as he was saying: ‘You take it too much to heart! I expected a happy honeymoon. Somehow, we have failed—’ That was all I heard, sir. But what made me remember his words was that she was dressed for some afternoon reception and looked so charming and so—and so, as if she ought to be happier.”