“Hush, Betty!” Roberts took the overwrought girl’s hand in his. “You shall see Paul later, dear, that I promise you. Sit down and calm yourself.”
“I have your word?” Betty’s great eyes never left Roberts. “I shall see Paul?”
“Yes. There, sit down,” as Miriam Ward pulled forward a chair.
“Perhaps the young lady had better withdraw to another room,” suggested Coroner Dixon. “We are about to start an investigation—”
“An investigation?” Betty’s high-pitched voice, carrying a warning note of approaching hysteria to Miriam Ward’s watchful ears, reached to the hall beyond and a figure crouching near the bedroom door, which had been inadvertently left open a few inches, leaned forward, the better to catch what was transpiring in the room. “What do you mean, sir?”
Coroner Dixon contemplated her for a second in silence. Betty’s unusual beauty generally commanded attention, but something in her expression focused the Coroner’s regard rather than her good looks, marred as they were by deep circles under her eyes and haggard lines about her mouth. He answered her question with another.
“Your name, madam?” he asked. “And your relation to the dead man?”
“This is Miss Betty Carter,” broke in Doctor Roberts. “Mr. Abbott’s fiancée.”
“Is it so?” Coroner Dixon’s interest quickened. “Then Mr. Abbott—”
“Was very dear to me.” Betty’s tone had grown husky. “I must know all about his death.” Her gaze swept Guy Trenholm, standing somewhat in the background. “It is my right.”