Tim hesitated. It seemed impossible even to say the little word, “Yes.” But the coroner, busy folding up Miss Fogg’s note, labeling it and tucking it away in his wallet, where no doubt it found itself in company with many another pitiful disaster, appeared not to notice his silence.
“I’ve heard ’bout your wife,” he said. “Everybody says she was mighty good to the old woman—seemed to put new life into her. Can I speak to her?”
“She’s feeling bad,” Tim hesitated. “She’s mightily upset. She ran upstairs with everybody, and saw the poor old soul layin’ on the floor.”
“Yes,” the coroner nodded, “right much of a mess, wa’n’t it? Liable to upset anybody not used to viewin’ all kinds of remains, like I am.”
“It was all over her clean waist,” Tim explained earnestly. “Julie just ironed that waist for her—just a little bit before.”
“I see,” said the coroner. “Perfectly natural she’s upset. Well, no need to disturb her if she’s feeling bad. This note gives plenty of evidence.”
He turned to go, but Tim detained him with an eager hand upon his arm.
“A crazy old woman like—like she was, would be mighty apt to commit suicide, wouldn’t she? It would take less to make her do it than it would for a person in good health?” he begged. “She’d do it easier than most folks, wouldn’t she?”
“Oh, yes, any little thing’d be liable to tip her over,” the other assented. “This trouble now, what she speaks of here in the letter—that other woman goin’ off with the niece’s husband—that was all she needed: that did the trick for her, poor old soul. Well,” he turned again to go, “no need to trouble your wife if she’s feelin’ bad. Tell her she ought to feel good to think she was able to do so much for the old lady.”
With that he went, and Tim turned and saw Julie standing in the open door with the dark of the sitting-room behind her, and knew that she had heard what the coroner said.