She looked at him with a stony stare. Her brows were slightly raised, but around her eyes the lids were strangely contracted. The expression of the whole face was that of one who suffered pain, but was not giving attention to the pain. When she spoke, her voice was dry and hard.
"It is most kind of your mother to interest and trouble herself about a perfect stranger. I do not feel cold, thank you."
The contraction round the eyes relaxed. A look of intelligence alarmed came into her eyes, and she asked, in a husky voice:
"Do you know anything of cases such as this? I mean, do you know anything of the law in such cases?"
"The law!" he said, "the law! In what way do you mean?"
"Oh," she cried, covering her face with her hands, "it is dreadful to think of--horrible! Can you not tell me," she pleaded, "if--if it will be necessary to have an----"
She paused and looked at him beseechingly.
"An inquest?"
"Yes."
"Certainly not," he answered promptly. With this beautiful woman before him it was shocking to think of the ordeal and details of an inquest. "Mr. Davenport was suffering from a disease of long standing; it had been particularly bad to-night, and a violent paroxysm overcame him. My friend, Dr. Santley, will make it right, and you will be spared all pain that can possibly be diverted from you."