“Brace up!” His tone, though kindly, was firm, and Miriam checked her inclination to cry—she was utterly weary and her head ached with memories which would not down. “Now,” he added as she bit her lip and winked back the tears. “Are you positive you heard no one talking to Mr. Abbott?”
“Except Miss Carter.”
“Well, aside from her,” with patient persistence.
Miriam shook her head. “I can swear that I heard no one converse with Mr. Abbott except Doctor Roberts and Miss Carter.”
“There was no murmur of voices as you lost consciousness?”
“I heard none.”
“Strange!” mused Trenholm. “Why did not Paul Abbott cry out when you were chloroformed? He was conscious last night—?”
“Oh, yes, although occasionally irrational.” She glanced up at the sheriff and then toward the bed. “Possibly he was killed before I returned.”
“That may be.” Trenholm tugged at his mustache. “Was Mr. Abbott in a condition to get up?”
“He might have, with assistance,” cautiously.