All of these roused little or no interest. Judge Hoyt explained that Peddie was the man with whom he was making a deal with a real estate corporation for Mr. Trowbridge, and that the matter had been successfully put through to a conclusion.
But next was shown a letter so old that it was in worn creases and fairly dropping apart. It had evidently been carried in the pocket for years. Gingerly unfolding it, Coroner Berg read a note from Professor Meredith that was angry, even vituperative. The bone of contention was the classification of a certain kind of beetle, and the letter implied that Mr. Trowbridge was ignorant and stubborn in his opinions and his method of expressing them. There was no threat of any sort, merely a scathing diatribe of less than a page in length. But it was quite evident that it had hurt Rowland Trowbridge severely, as its date proved that he had carried it around for two years.
And there was another old letter. This was from Justice Greer and was a blast on some old political matter. Here again, a strong enmity was shown, but nothing that could be construed as an intimation of revenge or even retaliation.
Still there were the two letters from decided enemies, and they must be looked into.
Avice, in her own heart, was sure they meant nothing serious. Her uncle had held these two grudges a long time, but she didn’t think any recent or desperate matter had ensued.
Some newspaper clippings, most of them concerning Natural History, and a few elaborate recipes for cooking, completed the collection found in the pockets.
“Nothing in the least indicative, unless it might be those two old letters,” commented the coroner.
Pinckney was disappointed. He had hoped for some clue that he could trace. Like Avice, he thought little of the old letters. Those two eminent citizens were most unlikely to murder a colleague, or even to employ a rogue to do it for them. To his mind, there was nothing enlightening in all the inquest so far. Indeed, he had almost no use for the Black Hand theory. It didn’t seem convincing to him. He thought something would yet come out to give them a direction in which to look, or else the truth would never be discovered.
And then there was a commotion in the hall, and an officer came in bringing with him a big, husky-looking Swede, and a pale blue-eyed little woman.
“This is Clem Sandstrom,” the officer informed the coroner. “And this is his wife. You can get their stories best from them.”