“Yes, sir; he lay on his left side with his face turned toward the door,” answered Vera. “His face was somewhat in shadow as his back was turned to the bed-table on which the night light stood, but I could see that his eyes were closed.”
“Was he lying in the same position when you found him dead the next morning?”
“No.” Vera whitened as the scene of the tragedy flashed before her mental vision. “Mr. B-Brainard then lay on his back staring straight up at the ceiling, his head twisted to one side. Oh!” and one hand flew upward covering her eyes. “I can never forget the expression of his face—the look of fear—of agony. Gentlemen”—her hand dropping to her side, while she steadied herself with determined effort—“he must have suffered horribly—before he died.”
“And you, awake in the next room, heard no sound?” Coroner Black repeated his former question with quiet persistence.
“I heard no sound,” responded Vera mechanically. “Absolutely no sound.”
A pause followed as Coroner Black fumbled among the papers lying on the table. When he removed his hand his fingers clutched a razor.
“Have you seen this razor before?” he inquired, offering it to her.
Vera shrank back. “I saw a razor lying on the bed beside Mr. Brainard. I did not pick it up or examine it closely.”
“You mean that you cannot identify this as the razor which you saw lying on Mr. Brainard’s bed this morning?”
“Yes,” and there was a change in her tone, too subtle to be detected by the coroner. She hurried on before he could ask another question: “On discovering Mr. Brainard’s condition this morning I went for Dr. Noyes, and as he was not in his room, I hastened to get Mr. Hugh Wyndham.”