Prometheus Unbound
The coroner’s intent look which had more or less sustained me through this ordeal, remained fixed upon my face as though he were still anxious to see me exonerate myself. How much did he know? That was the question. How much did he know?
Having no means of telling, I was forced to keep silent. I had revealed all I dared to. As I came to this conclusion, his eyes fell and I knew that the favorable minute had passed.
The question he now asked proved it.
“You say that you were not blind to surrounding objects, even if they conveyed but little meaning to you. You must have seen, then, that the room where Miss Cumberland lay contained two small cordial glasses, both still moist with some liqueur.”
“I noticed that, yes.”
“Some one must have drunk with her?”
“I cannot contradict you.”
“Was Miss Cumberland fond of that sort of thing?”
“She detested liquor of all kinds. She never drank I never saw a woman so averse to wine.” I spoke before I thought. I might better have been less emphatic, but the mystery of those glasses had affected me from the first. Neither she nor Carmel ever allowed themselves so much as a social glass, yet those glasses had been drained. “Perhaps the cold—”