Dr. Magnus showed at once that he meant to cast aside all sentimental considerations and adhere solely to the judicial elements. He treated George Pickering’s deposition with all respect, but pointed out that the dying man might be actuated by the desire to make atonement to the woman he had wronged. The human mind was capable of strange vagaries. A man who would slight, or, at any rate, be indifferent, to one of the opposite sex, when far removed from personal contact, was often swayed by latent ties of affection when brought face to face with the woman herself.
In a word, the Coroner threw all his weight on the side of the police and against Betsy. He regarded Fred Marshall and young Bolland as truthful witnesses, though inspired by different motives, and deemed the medical evidence conclusive.
Betsy sat sphinx-like through this ordeal. Her unhappy parents, and even more unhappy sister, were profoundly distressed, and Stockwell watched the jury keenly as each damning point against his client was emphasized.
“The law is quite clear in affairs of this kind,” concluded Dr. Magnus gravely. “Either this unfortunate man was murdered, in which event your verdict can only take one form, or he met with an accident. Most fortunately, the last word does not rest with this court, or it would be impossible to close the inquiry to-day. The deceased himself raised a pertinent question: Why did his wife escape blood-poisoning, although he became infected? But the solicitors present apparently concur with me that this is a matter which must be determined elsewhere——”
“No, no,” broke in Mr. Stockwell. “I admit nothing of the sort.”
The Coroner bowed.
“You have the benefit of my opinion, gentlemen,” he said to the jury. “You must retire now and consider your verdict.”
The jury filed out into a classroom, an unusual proceeding, but highly expedient in an inquiry of such importance. Tongues were loosened instantly, and a hum of talk arose, while the witnesses signed their recorded statements. Kitty endeavored to arouse her sister from the condition of stupor in which she remained, and the girl’s mother placed an arm around her shoulders. But Betsy paid little heed. Her mind dwelt on one object only—a sheet-covered form, lying cold and inanimate in a room of the neighboring hotel.
Angèle sidled toward Martin when a movement in court permitted. Françoise would have restrained her, but the child slid along a bench so quickly that the nurse’s protest came too late.
“Martin,” she whispered, “you behaved beautifully. I was so angry with you at first. But it was not you. I know now. Evelyn Atkinson told.”