The coroner turned in his chair and faced her squarely. “When did you last see Mr. James Patterson alive?” he asked.
“As he went up the staircase to the second floor,” Ethel’s voice quivered, and her eyes filled with tears. Jim Patterson had, through his unfortunately jealous disposition forfeited her friendship, but he had met his death bravely, while endeavoring to carry out her last request, and his memory should be sacred.
“I have been told that it was at your request that Mr. Patterson attempted to enter the burning room.” Coroner Penfield paused, then asked impressively, “Is that so?”
“Yes. And I bitterly regret—” she choked and broke down.
“I understand,” said Penfield sympathetically, and waited considerately for her to regain her composure. “And what did you ask Mr. Patterson to procure for you from the burning room?” He waited an appreciable moment for a reply, and not getting it, repeated his question more emphatically.
“I asked him to get something out of my desk in the den,” said Ethel at last, and both Coroner Penfield and Lois McLane took silent note of her unwilling almost sullen tone. “I could see from across the street that the fire seemed to be raging about the front of the room and judged that my desk was not in the direct line of fire. I started into the house, intending to go upstairs myself, but Mr. Patterson stopped me at the front door and—and—went instead. Oh, I wish he hadn’t,” she added. “I shall always reproach myself.”
“Miss Ogden,” Penfield touched her sympathetically on her arm to attract her attention from her bitter thoughts, “was Mr. Patterson successful—?”
“Successful?” she echoed, uncomprehendingly. “Why, he was killed.”
“Successful in procuring what you sent him for, I mean,” explained Penfield hurriedly.
“I found one of the articles I asked him to bring me in the desk this morning; the other was gone.”