"It is not nonsense, Mr. Lawrence," said the coroner, "but we may call it merely a form, which is advisable in our opinion, until we can further investigate the case."
"Indeed we will investigate!" Lawrence declared; "and our investigation will prove that it was an intruder from outside who killed my uncle. A robber, a burglar, a professional criminal of some sort! You have enough evidence of this. Clues, you call them. Well, there they are; let them lead you to the discovery of the man who brought them here."
"But, Mr. Lawrence," objected the coroner, "it has been proved that a burglar, such as you speak of, could not get into this apartment last night. How do you suppose he entered?"
"How did he get in? I don't know! that is your business to find out. There you have your precious clues—enough of them to implicate any burglar. If necessary, get detectives—the best possible. Use any means, stop at no expense; but discover the man who committed this crime! And in the meantime, retract your absurd and idiotic suggestion of detaining Miss Pembroke."
Though not astonished that George Lawrence should so resent the suspicion of his cousin, I was surprised that he should express himself so vehemently and with such an exhibition of passion.
And then I remembered that both he and Miss Pembroke were of strongly emotional nature, and that since Robert Pembroke had been given to frequent exhibitions of anger and ill temper, it was probably an hereditary trait.
After the Coroner's words Lawrence said no more, but his firmly set mouth and glaring eyes, betokened the intensity of his thoughts.
The colored girl, Charlotte, was also moved to loud and protesting lamentations. She became hysterical and wailed and moaned in true negro fashion.
"Oh, lawsy me!" she exclaimed! "why didn' I leave befoh dis yer strodegy happened! Oh, Miss Janet, honey, did yo' really kill Marse Robert? An' did you steal dat money? Oh, I nebber thought my Miss Janet would do dat!"