Again a burning blush covered Anne’s cheeks and brow, but her eyes did not falter in their direct gaze at the coroner.
“You overstep your privilege,” she replied with gentle dignity. “My private affairs are certainly no concern of yours.”
Penfield colored under his tan. “Are you aware that your uncle was murdered?” he asked.
“Murdered!” The horrified exclamation escaped Anne as she reeled in her chair and then recovered herself. “Murdered? No—impossible!”
“The result of the autopsy proves that he was murdered,” reiterated the coroner. “Can you tell us of any one who bore him enmity?”
Anne was conscious of a deadly faintness and she clutched the arms of her chair with a convulsive grip.
“No,” she faltered. “No.”
“Think carefully,” advised Penfield, viewing her emotion with satisfaction. Was she at last unnerved?
“No.” The monosyllable rang out with greater clearness and Curtis smiled, well pleased; she had gotten herself in hand again.
Penfield changed his tactics. “When did you last see your uncle alive?” he asked.