“Why did you and Mr. Brainard quarrel last night?” he asked.
“Quarrel?” Millicent stared at him, then laughed a bit unsteadily. “Mr. Brainard and I quarrel—what nonsense! Who put such an idea in your head, sir?”
“Your footman, Murray, has testified that he overheard you exclaim, ‘No! No!’ on the portico there,” pointing to the long windows. “And after you had dashed by him into the house Murray found Mr. Brainard lying overcome on the ground.”
Millicent never removed her eyes from the coroner; she seemed drinking in his words, half unable to believe them.
“Murray saw us?” she stammered, half to herself. “I had no idea others were about.” Abruptly she checked her hasty speech, and her determined chin set in obstinate lines. “Apparently you know everything that transpired last night. Then why question me?” she demanded.
“We do not know everything,” replied Coroner Black patiently. “For instance, we do not know who murdered Bruce Brainard.”
His words struck home. She reeled in her seat, and but for Thorne’s supporting arm would have fallen to the floor.
“Murdered!” she gasped. “Murdered? You must be mistaken.”
“Unfortunately, Miss Porter, the medical evidence proves conclusively that it was murder and not suicide. Now,” continued Black, eying her watchfully, “we want your aid in tracking the murderer—”
“I know nothing—nothing!” she burst in passionately. “I never saw Mr. Brainard again after he went upstairs; I slept soundly all last night, and heard nothing.”