Since he had comprehended the magnitude of the transaction as disclosed by the deed and certificates, and after Doctor Westbrook's interposition, the Coroner's manner toward the Mexican had noticeably altered.
"No more than necessary," he replied deferentially; "no more than necessary, sir. I am sorry, but these papers will have to remain among the deceased's other effects until after the inquest, anyhow. Mr. Mountjoy, our district attorney, is the proper authority for you to see."
"Good!" returned the Mexican. "I desire not for my humble affairs to stand in the path of justice." Bowing once more, he returned to his former position away from the others.
Converse suddenly passed over to the Coroner, and laid a bloody dagger upon the table. Its silver blade, crimsoned in part, was grewsome and startling beneath the bright glare of the shaded incandescent lamp. Mr. Merkel involuntarily drew back his hands, the strange gentleman who had been with the Doctor since the tragedy visibly shuddered, and for an instant—the smallest portion of a second—the dull eyes of Señor Vargas took on a strange light, as though the pupils had all at once distended, allowing a glimpse to the uttermost depths, then became dull again. It was like the abrupt opening and closing of a shutter. Otherwise his features did not change, nor did he move. The more phlegmatic policeman looked upon the little weapon without apparent emotion; the Doctor and Howard Lynden with none at all.
However, as the Captain placed it upon the table his eyes took in every occupant of the room in one rapid sweeping glance, only to drop as he stooped and whispered to the Coroner, who there upon nodded and turned to the waiting group.
"Now, gentlemen," said he, "this is not the inquest, of course; but let us hear what you have to say about this. You first, Doctor Westbrook; you first."
"What I can tell you will seem much less than it should," the Doctor returned. "It was about five o'clock, and I was sitting at my table—there, where you are now. I had just finished a letter to no other than Señor de Sanchez himself."
"Is this it?" the Coroner interrupted, extending a letter to the speaker. Doctor Westbrook replied affirmatively, and proceeded with his recital.
"I had just completed and blotted it, and was preparing to address the envelope, when I heard footsteps in the hall. I paused, with the pen in my hand, and listened, for I was expecting Señor de Sanchez to call at my office this evening, though not so early, and I imagined the footsteps might be his. As I listened, I noted that my door was not quite shut, and the footfalls advanced steadily down the hall, approaching my office. When immediately outside the door, and while I was looking up expectant of the caller's entrance, they ceased abruptly. There was a slight sound of scraping on the floor of the hall, as though the man—whom I could not then see—were endeavoring to rub something from his shoe-sole on the boards, or had slipped slightly; without the slightest warning, his whole weight plunged against the door. It was thrown violently open by the impact, and I was horrified to behold Señor de Sanchez stagger through, his right hand extended in front of him, as if groping for support. As he crossed the threshold he lurched to his right and struck the wall, along which he slid to the floor, just as you now see him."
During his relation of these particulars, the Doctor's manner was perfectly cool and collected. The next incident fairly electrified his intent listeners.