“In her room, I presume—”
“No, she is asleep downstairs,” interrupted Alan hastily. “Shall I call her?” A nod from Trenholm was his only answer, and Alan hurried from the room, but at the head of the staircase he caught a glimpse of a white skirt disappearing around the further corner of the hall and he changed his direction. He caught up with Miriam Ward just as she was turning the knob of a closed door, a number of towels in her left hand.
“You are wanted by the coroner,” he explained, as she stopped at sight of him.
Miriam grew a shade paler. “Very well,” she replied, “But first—” she handed the towels to the undertaker and closed the door again. “Where is the coroner, Mr. Mason?”
“In my cousin’s old bedroom.” Alan suited his long stride to her shorter one. “I hope you feel a bit rested,” glancing down at her with some concern, but it was doubtful if she heard his remark, her attention being centered on a figure coming up the staircase. Alan stopped short as he recognized the newcomer and his face grew stern.
“Betty!” he exclaimed.
She stared at him for a long moment, then without a word of any kind she walked by them and through the bedroom door near which Doctor Roberts was standing, waiting to greet her. Without halting Betty made at once for the four-post bedstead.
“Wait, Betty!” Alan had gained her side and laid a compelling hand on her arm. “Paul is not there.”
Betty regarded him in utter silence, then faced about and looked at the small group in the bedroom.
“Paul is dead—dead!” she spoke with great difficulty, one hand plucking always at the collar of her fur coat. “You shall not keep me from him. You—” for a second her blazing eyes scanned Sheriff Trenholm—“you dare not.”