“It must.”
“Then—” He raised his arm; the blood swept up, dyeing his cheeks, his brow, his very neck a vivid scarlet. “Tell them to lock up every bottle the house holds, or I cannot answer for myself. I should like to drink and drink till I knew nothing, cared for nothing, was a madman or a beast.”
“You will not drink.” The coroner’s voice rang deep; he was greatly moved. “You will not drink, and you will come to the office at five o’clock to-morrow. We may have only good news to impart. We may find nothing to complicate the situation.”
Arthur Cumberland shook his head. “It’s not what you will find—” said he, and stopped, biting his lips and looking down.
The coroner uttered a few words of consolation forced from him by the painfulness of the situation. The young man did not seem to hear them. The only sign of life he gave was to rush away the moment the coroner had taken his leave, and regain his seat within sight and hearing of his still unconscious sister. As he did so, these words came to his ears through the door which separated them:
“Flowers—I smell flowers! Lila, you always loved flowers; but I never saw your hands so full of them.”
Arthur uttered a sharp cry; then, bowing his face upon his aims, he broke into sobs which shook the table where he sat.
Twenty-four hours later, in the coroner’s office, sat an anxious group discussing the great case and the possible revelations awaiting them. The district attorney, Mr. Clifton, the chief of police, and one or two others—among them Sweetwater—made up the group, and carried on the conversation. Dr. Perry only was absent. He had undertaken to make the autopsy and had been absent, for this purpose, several hours.
Five o’clock had struck, and they were momentarily looking for his reappearance; but, when the door opened, as it did at this time, it was to admit young Cumberland, whose white face and shaking limbs betrayed his suspense and nervous anxiety.
He was welcomed coldly, but not impolitely, and sat down in very much the same place he had occupied during his last visit, but in a very different, and much more quiet state of mind. To Sweetwater, his aspect was one of despair, but he made no remark upon it; only kept all his senses alert for the coming moment, of so much importance to them all. But even he failed to guess how important, until the door opened again, and the coroner appeared, looking not so much depressed as stunned. Picking out Arthur from the group, he advanced towards him with some commonplace remark; but desisted suddenly and turned upon the others instead.