“In the library, before the carriage came for me.”
“Miss Trevor”—the coroner fumbled with his watch chain—“what did you and Mrs. Trevor quarrel about that night?”
The question struck home. Beatrice reeled in her seat.
“What did you say?” she stammered.
The coroner repeated his question. With a visible effort, Beatrice regained her self-control.
“That is a matter between my stepmother and myself. I decline to discuss it with anyone.”
“But you must, Miss Trevor.”
“I will not. Our quarrel had nothing whatever to do with Mrs. Trevor’s death.”
“I am the best judge of that,” retorted Coroner Wilson, but Beatrice remained obstinately silent.
“Come, Miss Trevor, can you not see that you are injuring yourself by this refusal. People will jump to but one conclusion. For your own sake, I beg you to tell us what your quarrel was about.”