“You are sure?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the stolid Blake. “And he sort of raised his hand, pointing toward the lady.”
“Pointing toward Miss Vernon, you mean?”
“Yes, sir.”
Barry Stannard could stand it no longer. “I won’t have this!” he cried. “I won’t allow this hysterical story of an ignorant servant to be told in a way to incriminate an innocent girl. It’s all wrong!”
The Coroner considered. It did seem too bad to listen to the vital points of the story from an underling, when such tragic issues were at stake.
“Sit down, for the present, Blake,” he said. “Mrs. Faulkner, will you give us your version of these events?”
Beatrice Faulkner looked very white and seemed loth to respond and then with a sudden, determined air, she faced the Coroner, and said, “Certainly. Will you ask questions?”
The beautiful woman looked even more stately in her mild acquiescence than she had done on her first mute refusal. Her large, soft black eyes rested on Joyce with a pitying air and then strayed to Natalie, the little model, who was a mere collapsed heap of weeping femininity. With a deep sigh, Beatrice turned to the Coroner.
“I am ready,” she said, with the air of one accustomed to dictate times and seasons.