Her questions were not prompted by coquetry, that was evident. Her tone was serious, and she looked at the detective wistfully.
“No, Miss Vernon,” he answered, seriously, “you have no reason to be afraid of me, but I will tell you frankly, you have great reason to fear the consequences if you tell me anything but the exact truth. Pardon me, if that seems a rude speech, but great issues are at stake and prevarication on your part to the slightest degree would baffle all my plans and hopes.”
“I will tell the truth,” Natalie sighed, “so far as I know it. But sometimes it’s very hard to be sure of what is true.”
“Yes, I know it. Now, Miss Vernon, just one word about the time and scene of the crime. When you came into the studio, because you heard—what did you hear?”
Alan Ford’s manner was calculated to set the nervous girl at her ease, and his kindliness made her calm and un-self-conscious.
“I heard Eric moan.”
“Did you know at once it was Mr. Stannard?”
“Oh, yes. It sounded like him, and I suppose he was in there.”
“What did you think ailed him?”
“I don’t believe I thought of that. I just heard the curious gasping sound, as of somebody choking, and I ran in. I didn’t think,—I only wondered what was the trouble.”