Coroner Dixon turned and glanced in doubt at Trenholm. At the latter’s reassuring nod he faced about.
“Very well, Miss Carter,” he began. “Since you insist I will tell you what we have learned.” He cleared his voice before continuing. “Judging by the condition of the body, Mr. Abbott died between one-thirty this morning and three o’clock. He was stabbed.”
“Stabbed!” With a convulsive movement Betty gained her feet, her face deadly white. “Stabbed!”
Doctor Roberts laid a soothing hand on hers. “Be quiet, Betty,” he cautioned. “Or you will have to go and lie down.”
She shook off his hand. “Go on,” she directed, and the urgency of her tone caused Dixon to speak more rapidly.
“Mr. Abbott was stabbed in the back,” he stated. “We know no more than that, at present.”
Without taking her gaze from the coroner, Betty resumed her seat. Then she turned to Roberts. “I heard yesterday that Paul was very ill, and that you were attending him professionally. Were you with him last night?”
“Yes; until Miss Ward came and then I put her in charge of the case,” replied Roberts. “She can tell you what happened after my departure.”
Miriam Ward faced their concentrated regard with outward composure. Caught by chance in the web of circumstance, she was keenly alive to her unhappy share in the tragic occurrences of the night before. Having a high regard for her profession and throwing her heart and soul into her work she felt, however little she had been to blame, that the stigma of neglect of a patient would be laid at her door.
“Before leaving, Doctor Roberts gave me full instructions,” she began. “And I carried them out. My chart shows that—”