Here the details of the scene before him, the frowning coroner, the amazed jury, the dignified lawyer, sank into his consciousness and he stopped abruptly a few feet from the table.
"What is the meaning of all this?" he inquired, but in a more subdued tone. "Mr. Cunningham, what are all these people doing here?"
Before the lawyer could answer him, he cried out suddenly, "My uncle! What has happened to him!"
"Mr. Darwin was shot last night," answered the coroner.
"Shot? You—you mean murdered?" in a horrified whisper.
The coroner nodded, then said briskly: "I am glad you are here. There are several questions I should like to ask you."
"I am at your service."
The defiant lift of the head as he spoke, and the fiery look he cast around the room as if challenging us to contradict him, were so like the actions of a creature at bay that I examined him more attentively. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, dark, young man, with a pair of snapping black eyes that roamed restlessly about the room during his entire examination. It was evident that he was laboring under some strong emotion, for much as he controlled his voice and strove to appear calm the muscles of his face betrayed him by their involuntary twitching, and his hands were clenched convulsively at his sides.
"You had a misunderstanding with your uncle yesterday morning. Is my information correct?"
No answer, only a savage look in Orton's direction, as though he divined the source of the coroner's knowledge of his affairs.