“Whatever my feeling in the past, I can harbor no resentment now,” retorted Alan, his quick temper ruffled by Roberts’ mention of an unhappy memory. “Well, gentlemen, what is the result of the autopsy?”
“Are you asking as a newspaper man or as next of kin?” inquired Coroner Dixon, regarding Alan’s flushed countenance attentively.
“As Paul’s cousin,” quickly. “Whatever you tell me I will consider strictly confidential.”
“In that case,”—Dixon selected a chair—“we held the autopsy in a spare bedroom at the back of the house,” observing Alan’s eyes stray toward the four-post bedstead, the curtains of which still remained drawn. “The undertaker and his assistants are there now.” He sat back and regarded Alan. “We can consult together here without being disturbed. As you know, Mr. Abbott had been ill for several days with an attack of bronchitis and threatened pneumonia; this, coupled with heart complications, made his condition very serious.”
“But did either cause his death?” asked Alan.
“No,” responded the coroner. “We probed the wound in his back and found that the weapon had penetrated the left lung. In his weakened condition, death must have been instantaneous.”
Alan drew a long breath. “So the wound really was fatal!” he exclaimed. “The lack of much blood led me to believe that possibly the weapon had not struck a vital point.”
“The hemorrhage was internal.” Coroner Dixon’s expression grew more serious. “There is no doubt, Mason, but that your cousin was murdered.”
Alan passed his hand across his eyes. “My God!” he groaned. “Who harbored such animosity against Paul and how was the murder committed?”
“That is what we have to find out,” cut in Sheriff Trenholm. “Where is the nurse who was with Mr. Abbott last night, Doctor Roberts?”