“No, he had independent means, inherited from his father.”
“Would you describe him as a wealthy man?”
“I believe he was quite well off, but he never spoke of his financial affairs to me, or to anybody but his lawyers.”
“Do you know how his property is disposed of?”
“I know that he made a will, but I never enquired about the terms of it and he never told me.”
“But surely you were an interested party.”
“It was understood that some provision would be made for me if I survived him. That was all that concerned me. Deceased was not a man with whom it was necessary to make conditions; and I have some small property of my own. Mr. Mayfield, who is present, of course, knows what the provisions of the will are as he is one of the executors.”
Once more the coroner paused to look over his notes. Then he glanced inquiringly at the jury, and, when the foreman shook his head, he thanked Barbara and dismissed her; and as she walked back to her chair, pale and grave but perfectly composed, I found myself admiring her calm dignity and only hoping that the other witnesses would make as good a figure. But this hope was no sooner conceived than it was shattered. The next name that was called was Madeline Norris and for a few moments there was no response. At length Madeline rose slowly, ashen and ghastly of face, and walked unsteadily to the table. Her appearance—her deathly pallor and her trembling hands—struck me with dismay; and what increased my concern for the unfortunate girl was the subtle change in manner that I detected in the jury and the coroner. The poor girl’s manifest agitation might surely have bespoken their sympathy; but not a sign of sympathy was discernible in their faces—nothing but a stony curiosity.
Having been sworn—on a testament which shook visibly in her grasp—she deposed that her name was Madeline Norris and her age twenty-seven.
“Any occupation?” the coroner enquired drily without looking up.