I glanced at Keeley Moore, but nobody could read his inscrutable face.
I turned my attention to the jury.
Their interested countenances left no doubt of their sympathy with the witness and their readiness to accept her statements.
And apparently Hart himself believed in her. The explanation of the waistcoats was plausible enough. Doubtless, those rich men did give up their clothing before it was worn threadbare, especially if a pretty niece asked for it. And the Totem Pole, too. It was known that Sampson Tracy had been devoted to his niece, although they no longer lived in the same house, and for him to make her presents was far from unbelievable.
And, of course, I believed her.
Even if she had come to Pleasure Dome in the dead of night, that had nothing to do with the waistcoats, which, doubtless, were given to her exactly when and why she had stated.
Yet the girl seemed a mystery.
Coroner Hart contemplated her with a perplexed stare, which she in no way resented.
“Can I tell you anything more?” she asked, helpfully.
Then he glared at her.