“How did you find everything when you came down the next morning?”
“Every window was locked on the ground floor, and the night-latch was up on the front door, sir. The window on the stairway by which the burglar entered is covered by heavy curtains; and as it was closed, I never noticed it was unfastened until after the detective’s arrival.”
“Did you enter the private office?”
“Yes, sir; nothing had been disturbed.”
“No sign of a struggle?”
“No, sir. Every chair and rug was in its place.”
“That’s all; you can go now,” said the coroner, after a moment’s silence. Wilkins heaved a sigh of relief, as he hastened out of the room.
Interest was at fever heat among the spectators. For once Mrs. Macallister was too shocked by the trend of suspicion to voice her feelings to Peggy.
Apparently the least concerned person in the room was Beatrice Trevor, who had entered in answer to the clerk’s summons. Lack of sleep and anxiety had left their mark on the girl’s finely cut features, but there was no trace of fear in her large, candid eyes, which were turned inquiringly on the coroner.
Peggy’s heart was hot within her. How dare these people insinuate that Beatrice, her dear, dear friend, was guilty of murder. The idea was too preposterous!