"The room in which the shot was fired has a door communicating with your bedroom?"
"Yes."
"Was that door shut?"
"It is always shut."
"Shut, but not locked?"
"No, it was not locked."
The poet and Mr. Symeon looked at each other as she made this answer, with unalterable composure.
The coroner was an elderly man, a doctor—grave always, but especially so on this occasion, for this was an exceptional case, and appealed to him in an exceptional manner. The murder was even more mysterious than terrible; and he was at once touched and mystified by the unshaken composure of this young woman, who had been awakened from her morning sleep to be told that her husband had been murdered within a few yards of the room where she had been sleeping, full of happy dreams, perhaps, after the pleasant excitement of a dance.
Except for a strained look in the large grey eyes, there was nothing in her aspect to indicate the ordeal through which she had passed within the last two days.