Britz noted the changing expression of the man's face with lynxlike eagerness. There was something touching, pathetic, in the utter desolation which the secretary felt at his employer's death. Then, suddenly, a burning anger seemed to succeed all other emotions, and, in an outburst of tempestuous fury, he exclaimed:
"Collins—George Collins—damn him—damn that scoundrel! He did it—there was no one else! Officers, arrest Collins—you know who he is. He threatened to kill Mr. Whitmore, came down here every day for a month to do it. I'll send that cur to the electric chair—why should I shield him?"
"Precisely," agreed the coroner. "Now, calm yourself and tell us all about Collins."
Beard had been carried away by the storm of resentment that had swept his mind. He had uttered a direct accusation, something which it was farthest from his purpose to do. Caution had been his life-long habit. It had deserted him for the instant, but only for the instant. The next moment it had returned, to abide with him throughout the rest of the examination.
"This Mr. Collins—can you explain how he got in here without being observed by the clerks?" asked the coroner.
"No," snapped the secretary.
"What motive had he for killing Mr. Whitmore?" the coroner fired at him.
"None that I know of," declared Beard.
"Well, tell us in your own way what connection Mr. Collins had with this crime," the coroner said persuasively.
"I have nothing to tell."