“I do not, sir,” was her prompt reply. “My whole attention was absorbed by the—the figure on the bed. I was too—too terrified to observe anything else in the room.”
Coroner Black stared at her intently; her repose of manner and air of efficiency were at variance with her words. Judging from appearances she seemed the last person to lose her head in an emergency.
“That is all,” he announced, and covered his abruptness with an old-fashioned bow as he preceded her to the door. “I thank you, Miss Deane.”
With a slight inclination of her head to the jurors Vera slipped out of the room and made haste toward the staircase, but not before she heard Coroner Black’s low-toned command to the footman to enter the library.
The well-trained servant stood while the oath was being administered to him, then subsided into the seat indicated and waited patiently for the coroner to address him.
“State your full name and occupation,” directed the latter, examining the footman’s intelligent face, somber livery, and general air of respectability.
“Murray, sir, John Murray,” and the Scotch burr was unmistakable. “I’ve been second man to Mrs. Porter, sir, for going on seven years.”
“Did you admit Mr. Brainard when he arrived here last night?”
“I did, sir.”
“Did he have a bag or suitcase with him?”