In that devout decorum of expression and in the outline of her exact profile occasioned by her change of attitude, Herrick began once more to see the youthful candor of his Evadne. Yes, there was something royally childlike in that round chin and softly rounded cheek, in that obstinate yet all too sensitive lip, and that clear brow. Yes, thus expectant and motionless, she was still strangely like a tall little girl. Where did the coroner get his certainty? By God, he was branding her!—"Mr. Bryce Herrick," the coroner called.
The young man was aware at once of being a local celebrity. His evidence was to be one of the treats of the day. Not even the attack upon Christina had created a much greater stir. He took his place; and, "At last," said the coroner, "we are, I believe, to hear from somebody who saw something."
Herrick told his story almost without interruption. He was listened to in flattering silence; the young author had never had a public which hung so intently on his words. The silence upon which he finished was still hungry.
The coroner drew a long breath. "We're greatly obliged to you, Mr. Herrick. And now let us get this thing straight. It was one o'clock or thereabouts that Mr. Ingham began to play?"
They established the time and they went over every minutest detail of changing spirit in Ingham's music.
"That crash which waked you for the second time—do you think it could have been occasioned by an attack on Mr. Ingham?—that he may have been struck and thrown against the piano?"
"Oh, not at all. It was a perfectly deliberate discord, a kind of hellish eloquence."
"Ah! I'm obliged to you for that phrase, Mr. Herrick." And again he was asked—"That gesture which so greatly impressed you—do you think you could repeat it for us?"
Herrick quelled the impulse to reply, "Not without making a damned fool of myself," and substituted, "I can describe it."
"Kindly do so."