The medical examiner shook his head in decided negative. “The coroner’s verdict,” he answered, “not of course speaking officially, or for quotation in any way, will be one of accidental death. Of that I am morally certain. There wasn’t a shred of evidence to prove anything different. Or, one chance in ten, perhaps, at the most, it might be ‘death at the hands of persons unknown.’”
The reporter sighed. “It’s too bad, though, isn’t it?” he rejoined. “All the elements of a great story there somewhere”—he paused a moment; then added thoughtfully, “I’m not jollying, you know; I really am awfully disappointed. Because—it’s a queer thing—if there was any evidence for a starter, I could furnish some mighty interesting information in a certain direction. Do you know anything about the wife of this man that was killed, this Mrs. Satterlee?”
The examiner shook his head. “Nothing,” he answered, “excepting that I couldn’t help but notice that she was a remarkably beautiful woman. Entirely out of her class as the wife of a coachman, I should have said.”
“Exactly,” the reporter exclaimed. “Well, now, listen to this. If anybody wanted to hear some mighty funny evidence concerning this woman, and concerning one of the men who was at the Carleton place the night this happened—not gossip, you know, but something that I actually know about, saw with my own eyes—if anybody wanted to get hold of that, why, I rather think—”
The examiner raised a restraining hand. “Well, don’t think,” he said curtly. “You ought to know enough about the laws of evidence to stop you from figuring that two and two make five. And, anyway, don’t think too hard. It’s an awful strain on a man. Your business, as I understand it, as a reporter on the Columbian, is to report facts, and not to come any of these gum-shoe sleuth tricks.”
The reporter smiled, wrinkling his forehead whimsically. “Your ideas of facts and mine,” he rejoined, “might not tally, exactly, but in the main, yes, I guess you’re right.” He rose to take his leave. “And still,” he said again, “I can’t help wishing there was just a little evidence to go to the district attorney’s office. If there should be, now—”
“Well, there won’t,” snapped the examiner, “you needn’t worry. I tell you the case ends here.”
The reporter raised his eyebrows, at the same time making a deprecating gesture with arms and shoulders. “Oh, all right, all right,” he said soothingly. “Just as you say.” He held the door fully open now. “Oh, and look,” he added, “which Cummings was it that was spending the night out there? The railroad man, or Jim?”
The examiner did not look up from his writing. “Jim,” he answered shortly.
The reporter half closed the door again. “Say,” he observed engagingly, “now that’s another mighty funny thing—”