“And you did not come down-stairs again last night?”
“I did not.”
The words were spoken in a clear, even tone; but something made me doubt their truth. It was not the voice or inflection; there was no hesitation or stammer, but a sudden and momentary droop of Miss Lloyd's eyelids seemed to me to give the lie to her words.
I wondered if Gregory Hall had the same thought, for he slowly raised his own eyes and looked at her steadily for the first time since her testimony began.
She did not look at him. Instead, she was staring at the butler. Either she had reason to fear his knowledge, or I was fanciful. With an endeavor to shake off these shadows of suspicion, I chanced to look at Parmalee. To my disgust, he was quite evidently gloating over the disclosures being made by the witness. I felt my anger rise, and I determined then and there that if suspicion of guilt or complicity should by any chance unjustly light on that brave and lovely girl, I would make the effort of my life to clear her from it.
“You did not come down again,” the coroner went on pointedly, “to ask your uncle if he had changed his will?”
“No, I did not,” she replied, with such a ring of truth in her scornful voice, that my confidence returned, and I truly believed her.
“Then you were not in your uncle's office last evening at all?”
“I was not.”
“Nor through the day?”