Helen looked away from him and out of the window. The relief, which had lighted her face a moment before, had vanished. It was some minutes before she answered.
“Babs told you that I suspected Jimmie did not die from angina pectoris—” She spoke with an effort.
“Yes.”
She waited a second before continuing her remarks. “I have asked the coroner to make an investigation.” She paused again, then added with more animation, “He is the one to tell us if a crime has been committed.”
“He can tell if death has been accelerated by a weapon, or a drug,” responded Kent; he was weighing his words carefully so that she might understand him fully. “But to constitute a crime, it has to be proved first, that the act has been committed, and second, that a guilty mind or malice prompted it. Can you furnish a clew to establish either of the last mentioned facts in connection with Jimmie's death?”
Kent wondered if she had heard him, she was so long in replying, and he was about to repeat his question when she addressed him.
“Have you heard from Coroner Penfield?”
“No. I tried several times to get him on the telephone, but without success,” replied Kent; his disappointment at not receiving an answer to his question showed in his manner. “I went to Penfield's house last night, but he had been called away on a case and, although I waited until nearly ten o'clock, he had not returned when I left. Have you had word from him?”
“Not—not directly.” She had been nervously twisting her handkerchief about in her fingers; suddenly she turned and looked full at Kent, her eyes burning feverishly. “I would give all I possess, my hope of future happiness even, if I could prove that Jimmie died from angina pectoris.”
Kent looked at her in mingled sympathy and doubt.—What did her words imply—further tragedy?