“Nor any pistol shot.”
“Miss Leavenworth, excuse my persistence, but did you hear anything?”
“I heard a door close.”
“What door?”
“The library door.”
“When?”
“I do not know.” She clasped her hands hysterically. “I cannot say. Why do you ask me so many questions?”
I leaped to my feet; she was swaying, almost fainting. But before I could reach her, she had drawn herself up again, and resumed her former demeanor. “Excuse me,” said she; “I am not myself this morning. I beg your pardon,” and she turned steadily to the coroner. “What was it you asked?”
“I asked,” and his voice grew thin and high,—evidently her manner was beginning to tell against her,—“when it was you heard the library door shut?”
“I cannot fix the precise time, but it was after Mr. Harwell came up, and before I closed my own.”