“He said nothing. He—he pointed to the written paper on the table.”
“Which you had written yourself?”
“Yes, but he didn’t know that.” Cicely spoke eagerly, as if saying something of importance. “He thought she wrote it.”
“Never mind that point for the moment. But I must now ask you to explain that written message which you have declared that you yourself wrote.”
At this Cicely’s manner changed. She became again the obstinate and defiant woman who had answered the coroner’s earlier questions.
“I refuse to explain it.”
“Consider a moment,” said Mr. Benson quietly. “Sooner or later—perhaps at a trial—you will be obliged to explain this matter. How much better, then, to confide in us now, and perhaps lead to an immediate solution of the mystery.”
Cicely pondered a moment, then she said, “I have nothing to conceal, I will tell you. I did write that paper, and it was the confession of my heart. I am very miserable, and when I wrote it I quite intended to take my own life. When I was called to go to Miss Van Norman in the library, I gathered up some notes and lists from my desk to take to her. In my haste I must have included that paper without knowing it, for when I reached my room I could not find it. And then—then when I saw it—there on the table—I——” Cicely had again grown nervous and excited. Her voice trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and, fearing a nervous collapse, Mr. Benson hurried on to other questions.
“Whom does that S. in your note stand for.”
“That I shall never tell.” The determination in her voice convinced him that it was useless to insist on that point, so the coroner went on.