“Your uncle died, then, without a sign as to where the remaining will was to be found?”
“He did not have time. Death came instantly, leaving the words unsaid. It was a great misfortune.”
With a gesture of reproof, for he would not have it seem that he liked these comments, the Coroner pressed eagerly on:
“What of his looks? Did his features betray any emotion when he found that he could no longer speak?”
Edgar hesitated. It was the first time we had seen him do so and my heart beat in anticipation of a lie.
But again I did him an injustice. He did not want to answer—that we could all see—but when he did, he spoke the truth.
“He looked frightened, or so I interpreted his expression; and his head moved a little. Then all was over.”
In the silence which followed, a stifled sob was heard. We all knew from whom it came and every eye turned to the patient little figure in black who up till now had kept such strong control over her feelings.
“If Miss Bartholomew would like to retire into the adjoining room she is at liberty to do so,” came from the Coroner’s seat.
But she shook her head, murmuring quietly: