“Soiled in this way?” he went on.
“I know nothing about the soil. What is it? let me see.”
“In a moment. What we now wish, is to know how it came to be in your uncle’s apartment.”
“There are many ways. I might have left it there days ago. I have told you I was in the habit of visiting his room. But first, let me see if it is my handkerchief.” And she held out her hand.
“I presume so, as I am told it has your initials embroidered in the corner,” he remarked, as Mr. Gryce passed it to her.
But she with horrified voice interrupted him. “These dirty spots! What are they? They look like—”
“—what they are,” said the coroner. “If you have ever cleaned a pistol, you must know what they are, Miss Leavenworth.”
She let the handkerchief fall convulsively from her hand, and stood staring at it, lying before her on the floor. “I know nothing about it, gentlemen,” she said. “It is my handkerchief, but—” for some cause she did not finish her sentence, but again repeated, “Indeed, gentlemen, I know nothing about it!”
This closed her testimony.
Kate, the cook, was now recalled, and asked to tell when she last washed the handkerchief?