John Hale, who measured six feet two in his stocking feet, presented a striking contrast to Frank Latimer as they stood side by side, a contrast Washington society had laughed at and grown accustomed to. Their Damon and Pythias friendship had commenced when they were students at Harvard University and, continued through the years of their separation when John Hale was in Mexico, was cemented again upon the latter’s return to make his home permanently in the National Capital. Hale was the elder by two years. His healthy out-of-door life showed in the breadth of his shoulders and deep chest, and he was seldom credited with being forty-seven years of age. For the first time McLane became aware of the crow’s-feet discernible under his eyes as John Hale moved nearer him.
“Coroner Penfield’s examination,” McLane stated, “proved that Austin died as the result of a wound in the chest. The weapon penetrated the right ventricle of the heart, and death was due to internal hemorrhage.”
A heavy sob broke from Mrs. Hale. “Oh, poor Austin!” she lamented. “Oh, why did he do so mad an act?”
“Explain your meaning, madam,” insisted Ferguson quickly, and held up a cautioning hand as John Hale was about to interrupt her.
“Why, kill himself,” asserted Mrs. Hale. “To commit suicide is a mad act,” she added a trifle defiantly and gazed at her silent companions.
“Was the wound self-inflicted, doctor?” questioned Ferguson, and Mrs. Hale grew conscious of the strained attention of her companions as they waited in silence for McLane’s answer.
The surgeon answered with a question.
“Was any weapon found by the body?”
Ferguson took from his pocket a package wrapped in oilskin. Removing the wrapping, he exhibited a pair of long slender shears. One blade was covered with bloodstains.
“These shears were lying near the body,” he announced.