The two visitors and the coroner seated themselves at one of the flat-top desks, while the boy, pale, trembling, as if conscious of some guilty act, faced them with fear written in his youthful countenance. The coroner solemnly administered the customary oath.
"You know what will happen to you if you tell a lie?" he asked.
"Yes, sir, I'll be sent to prison," the boy answered timorously.
"Now what is your name?"
"Samuel Johnson."
The witness further confided that he had been employed in the establishment three years, that he had seen Mr. Whitmore enter the office and that thereafter he had occupied a seat within a foot of the door until one of the clerks called his attention to the peculiar attitude in which his employer had fallen in the chair.
"What did Mr. Whitmore say to you when he arrived this morning?" inquired the coroner.
"He'd been away for six weeks, and he put his hand on my head like he was glad to see me and said that no one was to be admitted to the office and I wasn't to bring in any visitor's card." The boy sobbed convulsively as he recalled the last words of his employer.
"Were any visitors here this morning?"
"No, sir."