"I think we had better see Miss Trevor herself," said Warriner, after Zeb had bowed and scraped his way out.
"All damned nonsense," objected Thaneford, looking uglier than ever. "And I must say, Mr. Warriner, that you are taking a great deal too much on yourself. I'm the coroner, and I know my duty."
Warriner stuck to his guns, and he was backed up by a juryman named Orton, a well-to-do farmer and an unusually intelligent man, as it seemed to me. Thaneford finally yielded ungracious assent and Miss Trevor again entered the room. As she stood confronting us I was struck by the intense pallor of her skin, when contrasted with the coal blackness of her hair and her sombre apparel of mourning. Yet she appeared perfectly collected and self-possessed; she admitted readily that she had been on the library terrace at the approximate hour of one o'clock; she explained that she had gone to the walled garden to cut some flowers for the luncheon table; she had returned by the terrace as that was the shortest way to the front door; she had entered the house, and, after arranging the flowers, she had retired to her own room. Warriner put a question or two relative to her taking Effingham's post at the library door while Doctor Marcy was endeavoring to break the news to Betty; her answers were definite and given without hesitation. Yes, she had sent the servant upstairs to get the smelling salts and the ammonia; she had thought the restoratives might be needed. Her account of the finding of the body agreed perfectly with the story told by Doctor Marcy.
"Thank you, Miss Trevor," said Warriner. "Just one more question. What sort of flowers did you cut on your visit to the garden?"
"Yellow roses. I think the variety is called Madame Colette Marinette."
Upon Miss Trevor's retirement the verdict was taken. It was unanimous and to the effect that Francis Hildebrand Graeme had come to his death through the visitation of God.
The jurymen climbed into their surreys and Fords and took their departure. Warriner lingered behind, and a few minutes later he joined me on the porch, where I was smoking a long longed-for cigarette. Miss Trevor had gone upstairs, and John Thaneford had betaken himself to the sick-room; we were entirely alone.
"I found this in the passage behind the secret door," he said, and handed me the withered remains of what had been a magnificent yellow rose.
"Interesting exhibit, isn't it," he went on dryly.
"You don't—you don't mean?" I stammered.