"Yes; thirty years ago," and I told him the little I knew of Ruth Endicott and her history.
He listened without comment, his eyes still on the bewitching face gazing down from the wall at us.
"Well, it beats me," was his only remark, when I had ended, and with a visible effort he tore himself away from the portrait, and turned to the coroner, who had been waiting patiently until our inspection of the painting was ended. "Is this where the inquest will be held?"
"Yes, sir; I'll have some chairs brought in. It won't last very long. I'll have to adjourn it, of course, until Miss Kingdon can give her testimony."
Godfrey nodded.
"Yes, you'll have to do that. Well, you may depend upon us—but I doubt if our evidence will go very far toward solving the mystery."
If the town had been glowing the night before over the disappearance of Marcia Lawrence, it was fairly blazing now over this new mystery. In fact, the one had quite eclipsed the other, and I was mightily relieved to find that no one suspected any relation between them. I bought copies of both the local papers, and observed again their prodigal use of black type and exclamation points. Each of them devoted the whole front page to the case, without, however, throwing any new light upon it. On another page, one of them stated in a few lines that nothing further had been heard from Miss Lawrence; the other contained no reference whatever to the Lawrence affair, and had apparently forgotten all about it.
Could any good come of reviving it? Why need Dr. Schuyler interfere at all? If it was Marcia Lawrence who was insane, the law could not touch her, whatever she had done. Harriet Kingdon was dead, and the obloquy of the crime could do her no injury. Besides, whoever had fired the shot——
Then, suddenly, I remembered the revolver. That was going to prove an awkward piece of evidence. Godfrey had suspected instantly who its owner was; and he, certainly, would permit no sentimental considerations to interfere with placing the whole truth before the public.