The naïveté of Christina's phrases sank to an awed whisper; her eyes were very fixed, like those of a child hypnotized by its own vision.
"I saw then that she was trying not to tremble and that she had been crying. She couldn't deny it, and so she told me that Mr. Ingham was very, very ill, and she let me get up and helped me to dress. But then, when I must see other people—she told me—she told me—"
Christina's throat swelled and her eyes filled suddenly with tears.
The coroner, cursing the sympathy of the situation, forced himself to a commiserating, "Did she say how he died?"
"She told me it was an accident. I said, 'What kind of an accident?' And she said he was shot. 'But,' I said, 'how could he be shot by an accident? He didn't have any pistol? You know he didn't own such a thing.'" A slight sensation traversed the court. "Then it came out—that no one knew—that people were saying it was—murder—"
"Do you believe that, Miss Hope?"
"I don't know what to believe."
"Did Mr. Ingham have any enemies?"
"I knew of none."
"From your intimate knowledge of Mr. Ingham's affairs you know of no one, either with a grudge to satisfy or a profit to be made, by his death?"