“Thirty years old. She was born in Paris, France.”
“Where did you first meet her?”
“In London at a ball given by the American Ambassador three years ago.”
“When and where were you married?”
“We were married on the eleventh of June of the same year, at St. George’s, Hanover Square.”
The coroner’s manner was very sympathetic, as he said:
“Now, Mr. Attorney General, will you kindly tell the jury of your movements on Wednesday night, last.”
“Certainly. I did not dine at home, as I had to attend the annual banquet given by the Yale alumni, at which I was to be one of the speakers. Just before leaving the house, I joined my wife and daughter in the dining-room. Mrs. Trevor told me that, as she had a bad nervous headache, she had decided not to go to the Bachelors’ Cotillion, but instead she was going to retire early. My daughter Beatrice had, therefore, arranged to go to the ball with her friend, Miss Macallister, who was to call for her at ten o’clock.
“My motor was announced, and as I kissed my wife, she asked me not to disturb her on my return, as she wanted to get a good night’s sleep. That was the last time I saw her alive—” His voice quivered with emotion, but in a few seconds he resumed: “On my return, about midnight, I went directly upstairs. Seeing no light in my wife’s room, which is separated from mine by a large dressing room, I retired.”
“Did you hear no noises during the night; no cries; no person moving about?”