“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “what do you know of Mary Leavenworth which makes even that supposition possible?”
The white face of the woman before me flushed. “I scarcely know what to reply,” she cried. “It is a long story, and——”
“Never mind the long story,” I interrupted. “Let me hear the one vital reason.”
“Well,” said she, “it is this; that Mary was in an emergency from which nothing but her uncle’s death could release her.”
“Ah, how’s that?”
But here we were interrupted by the sound of steps on the porch, and, looking out, I saw Q entering the house alone. Leaving Mrs. Belden where she was, I stepped into the hall.
“Well,” said I, “what is the matter? Haven’t you found the coroner? Isn’t he at home?”
“No, gone away; off in a buggy to look after a man that was found some ten miles from here, lying in a ditch beside a yoke of oxen.” Then, as he saw my look of relief, for I was glad of this temporary delay, said, with an expressive wink: “It would take a fellow a long time to go to him—if he wasn’t in a hurry—hours, I think.”
“Indeed!” I returned, amused at his manner. “Rough road?”
“Very; no horse I could get could travel it faster than a walk.”