“I—I don’t know,” and the Count stammered in an embarrassed way.
“You do know!” shouted Haviland; “the will has been read, and you know perfectly well that such a bequest was left to you.”
“Why did you deny the knowledge?” asked Scofield, sternly.
“I’m—I’m not sure——”
“You are sure!” stormed Gray. “Now where were you when Miss Carrington spoke those words to you? If not in her boudoir, then on the balcony outside the window, perhaps.”
“Absurd,” said the Coroner.
“Not at all,” said Gray; “that window opens on a balcony enclosed by glass. It is easily reached from outside by a small staircase, mostly used in summer, but always available. How could Miss Carrington speak to the Count concerning the bonds and concerning her infatuation for himself, which is no secret, unless he were there before her? And how could he be in the room—in her boudoir—unknown to the servants? Moreover, Mr. Coroner, I believe the glove found in Miss Carrington’s hand to be the property of Count Charlier.”
“But no!” cried the witness, excitedly; “I have repeatedly disclaimed that glove. It is not mine, I know not whose it is. I know nothing of this sad affair, whatever. If the money is left to me, as I have been told, it is a—a surprise to me.”
“Surprise nothing!” murmured Haviland, but he said no more to the Count.
“If my story might be told now,—” ventured Mrs. Frothingham.