“Did anyone see you leave the Benedict?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Then he added quickly, “At least, there may have been some of the other tenants around, or perhaps the janitor; I never noticed in my hurry.”
“Mr. Gordon—” the coroner’s manner was abrupt and stern—“do you see these pieces?” He took up the sheet from the table. “They are apparently torn from a letter of Mrs. Trevor’s to you, making an appointment to see you here on Wednesday night at eleven thirty. These scraps were found in your overcoat pocket. Again I ask, did Mrs. Trevor admit you?”
Gordon glanced at the sheet and recognized the handwriting. His mouth closed in a hard line, and he grew perceptibly paler. He straightened his broad shoulders, and faced the jury squarely, saying:
“I refuse to incriminate myself.”
In the dead silence the scratching of the stenographer’s pen could be heard plainly.
“You may retire,” said the coroner.
With perfect self-possession, Gordon left the room.
The coroner’s summing up of the case was short and to the point. As soon as he finished, the jury left the room to deliberate.
The hands of the ormolu clock on the mantel had gone five times around its dial, but there was no thinning out of the crowd. The majority of the spectators had attended the inquest out of friendship for the Trevors, others had been brought there by morbid curiosity; but none had expected such an outcome to the investigation. Now, in silence and nervous apprehension they waited for the return of the jury. The tension was snapped by their reappearance. The coroner rose and addressed them.