“I think that she is in the room where the inquest is being held, or if not, she soon will be.”
“As a witness?”
“Yes, so I suppose. Poor thing, when I left her an hour ago, locked in the room where they had carried her last night in a dead swoon, she was so much disturbed by my refusal to say one word about who had brought her there, about the murder, or what was to take place to-day, that I pitied her from the bottom of my heart.”
“Did she know Marlowe was killed?” asked Tamworth.
“His name was not mentioned.”
“Did she say nothing about her husband?”
“No; she saw that I would say nothing; and after a why is this, and a why is that, and a shake of my head, she stopped asking.”
“Which is the room of the inquest?”
“At the head of the stairs.”
Tamworth waited for no further words. The door into the hall was open, and a moment after he had entered the room to which he had been directed. A scene of peculiar interest was before him. The room was the one of the tragedy of the previous night. Its most conspicuous object was an antique bedstead with high oak head-board. It had been removed from the alcove, and now with its foot extended toward the center of the room, it stood before the red arras. On it was stretched the body of the dead man. It was still attired as Marlowe had left it, and in all its ghastly pallor, and unwashed of the blood which followed the fierce thrust of the rapier, it lay exposed to the morbid view of the vulgar. From where he stood Tamworth could not see the face of the corpse, but it was with a smile that he recognized the scarlet doublet and purple lower garments of his friend.