“Very well,” said the coroner shortly, resuming his seat. “You may tell the jury how Isom Chase was shot.”
Joe described Isom’s leap for the gun, the struggle he had with him to restrain him, the catching of the lock in the fork as Isom tugged at the barrel, the shot, and Isom’s death.
When he finished, the coroner bent over his note-book again, as if little interested and less impressed. Silence fell over the room. Then the coroner spoke, his head still bent over the book, not even turning his face toward the witness, his voice soft and low.
“You were alone with Isom in the kitchen when this happened?”
A flash of heat ran over Ollie’s body. After it came a sweeping wave of cold. The room whirled; the world stood on edge. Her hour had struck; the last moment of her 143 troubled security was speeding away. What would Joe answer to that?
“Yes,” said Joe calmly, “we were alone.”
Ollie breathed again; her heart’s constriction relaxed.
The coroner wheeled on Joe.
“Where was Mrs. Chase?” he asked.
A little murmur, as of people drawing together with whispers; a little soft scuffing of cautiously shifted feet on the carpet, followed the question. Ollie shrank back, as if wincing from pain.