"No."
"No? What were you doing on the evening of the fourth of August—the evening of his death?"
"My mother and I dined alone, at home. We were neither of us in good spirits. I had had a bad day at rehearsal—everything had gone wrong. My head ached and my mother was worn out with trying to get our house in order; it was a new house, we were just moving in."
"You rented a new house just as you were going to be married?"
"Yes, that was why. I was determined not to be married out of a flat."
A smile of sympathy stirred through her audience. It might be stupidity which kept her from showing any resentment toward a man who had practically accused her of murder. Or, it might be guilt. But she was so young, so docile, so demure! Her voice was so low and it came in such shy breaths—there was something so immature in the little rushes and hesitations of it. She seemed such a sweet young lady! After all, they didn't want to feed her to the tigers yet awhile!
And the coroner was instantly aware of this. "Then your mother," he said, "is the only person who can corroborate your story of how you passed that evening?"
"Yes."
"How did you pass it?"
"I worked on my part until after eleven, but I couldn't get it. Then I took a letter of my mother's out to the post-box."