And she, “the other girl,” was unknown and without money, while Betty had hosts of friends and an assured position in the world!
If she could only recall the name of the clergyman who had accompanied Betty! He would substantiate her statement. But try as she did to clearly remember each event of the night, his name eluded her. Undoubtedly the chloroform, with which she had been anesthetized, had much to do with her loss of memory. With proper rest, its effects would undoubtedly wear off; until then—
Miriam fingered the string of blue beads, which she was wearing, nervously. Neither Coroner Dixon nor Sheriff Trenholm had given her an inkling as to whether they really placed faith in her statement. They had listened with deep interest and without comment. In the face of their silence, she had hesitated to tell them of finding a strange man and not her patient in Abbott’s bed just before she lost consciousness. With no proof to offer them, she feared the hard-headed Sheriff would consider her demented indeed.
Turning from the mirror, Miriam walked across the bedroom toward the chair on which she had laid her coat and inadvertently trod on Martha’s discarded apron. As she lifted it up, intending to put it on the chair, a piece of paper rolled out of a rip in the hem of the apron and fell at her feet. Instinctively Miriam stooped over and picked up the paper, but instead of laying it down on top of the apron, she continued to hold it in front of her, her eyes caught by a black seal. The wax impression of the crest was distinct and unmistakable. With a sharp intake of her breath, Miriam turned over the half burned envelope. The Canadian postage was intact, but the name of the person to whom the envelope had been addressed was entirely burned away.
Miriam continued to regard the piece of envelope with fixed intentness. Slowly she deciphered the blurred postmark—it bore a recent date, of that she was positive—but then, how came the black crest upon any letter? Who dared to use it? Miriam was conscious of a feeling of icy coldness not due to the temperature of the room.
An authoritative tap on her door brought the red blood to her white cheeks with a rush and as Alan Mason looked inside the room at her low-voiced, “Come in,” he was struck by her air of distinction and the direct gaze of her hazel eyes, which were her chief beauty.
“Doctor Roberts is about to leave,” he said. “Let me carry your bag,” as she made a motion toward it, “and your coat.” Not listening to her murmured protest, he gathered up her things and waited for her to precede him through the doorway.
Miriam’s hesitation was imperceptible. Opening her handbag she dropped the half burned envelope inside it, then composedly walked down the corridor. At the head of the staircase she paused and addressed her companion.
“Have they made any plans for the funeral?” she asked.
“It is postponed until after the preliminary hearing of the inquest,” Alan replied, keeping his voice lowered.