“I thought they weren't going to have any,” Bartlett repeated, but whether to himself in a sort of daze, to Colonel Ashley, or to the man from headquarters was not clear. At any rate Colonel Ashley answered him by saying:
“You never can tell what Jersey justice is going to do. Coroner's inquests are not usual in this state, but they are lawful.”
“But why do they consider one necessary?” asked Bartlett, as they prepared to enter the house of death.
“That, my dear sir, I don't know. Perhaps the county physician may have requested it, or the prosecutor of the pleas. He may want to be backed up by the verdict of twelve men before taking any action.”
“But if Mr. Carwell's death was due to suicide who can be held guilty but himself?”
“No one. But I thought you said there was a doubt as to its being suicide,” commented the detective.
“Miss Carwell doubts,” returned Bartlett; “and I admit that it does seem strange that a man of Mr. Carwell's character would do such a thing, particularly when he had shown no previous signs of being in trouble. But you can never tell.”
“No, you can never tell,” agreed Colonel Ashley, and none knew, better than himself, how true that was.
“But why should they subpoena me?” asked Bartlett.
“Don't fret over that,” advised his companion, with a calm smile. “You probably aren't the only one. A coroner's inquest is, as some one has said, a sort of fishing excursion. They start out not expecting much, not knowing what they are going to get, and sometimes they catch nothing—or no one—and again, a big haul is made. It's merely a sort of clearing house, and I, for one, will be glad to listen to what is brought out at the hearing.”