"I was afraid they would charge me with his murder, so I hurried away, not knowing of those tell-tale stains on my dress where I had been down on my knees beside him. I did not kill him, no, no, but my fatal weakness drove him to take his own life."
There is a moment's perfect silence, then the voice of the coroner is heard, with a troubled cadence in its sternness:
"I regret my painful duty, Miss Langton, more than I can say. The high position you have always held in this county would forbid the thought of your criminality, but the evidence against you is of such a nature that we shall be compelled to commit you to prison until further developments."
Her cry of terror and indignation echoes to the blue sky above her golden head. The sweet song-birds fly affrighted from its shrill, eerie sound.
"You believe me guilty," she exclaimed. "Yet I have told you again and again that Vernon Clyde died by his own hand."
"If you could prove it to us," he says, "if you could even prove by a competent witness his threat of self murder, you should go free this hour."
She looks at him dumbly and strangely. Suddenly a light of dazzling joy breaks over her face. She slips her gloved hand into the folds of her dress, withdrawing it with a gasp of disappointment.
"Let me tell you," she says, hurriedly and eagerly. "Yesterday Mr. Clyde sent me a note relative to my promise to meet him last night. In it he says, distinctly and clearly: 'If you do not marry me, I swear I will shoot myself through the heart.' I remember that the note is in the pocket of the blue dress I wore yesterday. Tell me, for Heaven's sake, would that be proof sufficient?"
"If the writing could be proved as Mr. Clyde's, it would entirely clear you from suspicion."
"Then let them take me to Langton Villa," she cries, anxiously. "I can lay my hand upon the note in one moment."